'  /,'   ,   A          -      iX"'  ' 

f&*£i&M 


'm§_ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


THE 


THREE  ERAS 


or  A 


WOMAN'S   LIFE: 


COHT  AIHINCJ 


BY  T.  S,  ARTHUR, 


5 

PHILADELPHIA: 
J-  W.  BRADLEY,  48  N.  FOURTH  ST. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 
J.     W.     BRADLEY, 

Tn  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


1   •  I 

CONTENTS. 

I 

CHAPTER  I. 

EHJTY    BEFORE   PLEASURE 7 

CHAPTER  II. 
QARDINER'S  TRUB  CHARACTER  EXHIBITED 21 

CHAPTER  III. 

<»       THE  BEAUTY  AND  POWER  OF  GOODNESS. 31 

CHAPTER  IV.  .  j 

?               TRUE    MAIDEN   DELICACY     AND   ITS   OPPOSITE   CON 
TRASTED 36 

CHAPTER  V. 

A   DANGEROUS    CHARACTER .* 55 

CHAPTER  VL 
rHK  MAIDEN'S  FIRST  STRONG  TRIAL 64 

CHAPTER  VII, 

;  TRIED    AND   PROVED ,       73 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A   DI8APPOOTMENT 83 

I  I 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A  COLD  AND  CALCULATING  LOVER 86 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  SCHEME   TO   ENTRAP  THE   HEART   OF   ANHjv   LEE.      94 

CHAPTER  XL 

CATCHING    HUSBANDS. 103 

CHAPTER  XII. 

AN  ENGAGEMENT 114 

CHAPTER  XIIL 

A   NEW   LOVER .    113 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN   IMPRESSION   MADE 125 

CHAPTER  XV. 

A  SAD   PICTURE 130 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

137 

WOOED    AND   WON 145 


AM   EXCITING  CIRCUMSTANCE .    137  jj 

CHAPTER  XVII. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.  \ 

TOUTH   AND   BEAUTY    IN  RUINS 152 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

CONCLUSION  .  .  157 


THE  MAIDEN. 


>  CHAPTER  I. 

j&UTY    BEFORE    PLEASURE. 

"ANNA,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  in  a  quiet  tone  to 
j         tar  eldest  daughter,  a  young  maiden  over  whose 
head  the  blossoms  of  only  eighteen  happy  sum 
mers  had  fallen,  "  it  is  time  you  were  beginning 
to  dress  for  the  party  at  Mrs.  Leslie's." 

Anna  Lee  sat  sewing  near  a  window,  and  was 
bending  closer  towards  the  light,  as  it  was  begin 
ning  gradually  to  withdraw  before  the  shadows 
of  an  autumn  evening.  She  let  the  work  fall  <! 

into  her  lap,  and  mused  for  a  short  time.     Then 
turning  her  soft  blue  eyes  upon  her  mother,  £he 
}         said, 

"  I  believe  I  won't  go  this  evening." 
"Why  not,  Anna?     You  have   made   every 
J  •       preparation.     What   has  caused  you   to  change 
your  mind  1" 

(t) 


8  THE    MAIDEN. 

The  maiden  sat  again  silent  for  nearly  a  minute, 
evidently  debating  whether  she  should  go  out  or 
not.  Company  had  been  invited  at  the  house  of 


an  acquaintance,  where  she  had  fully  intended  to 
I1  spend  the  evening.  $ 

\  "I  don't  think  I  ought  to  go,"  she  replied,  a 

little  evasively.  ;| 

"Why,  dear?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  happier  at  home,  mother," 

"  But,  we  should  not  always  consult  our  owi\ 
feelings.  Think'whether  your  absence  will  not 
take  from  the  pleasure  of  some  of  Mrs.  Leslie's 
guests.  Some  of  your  young  friends  will  miss 
you.  I  think  I  would  go,  Anna ;  if  not  for  my 
own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  others." 

"  And  may  I  not  stay  at  home  for  the  same  rea 
son  ?"  said  Anna,  going  quickly  to  the  side  of  her         "j; 
mother,  who  sat  in  a  large  chair,  her  face  pale          J 
and  wearing  an  expression  of  languor.     She  drew 
her  arm  around  her  mother's  neck  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  may,  if  such  a  reason  can  keep  you  at 
home,"  replied  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  I  think  it  do-6  require  me  to  stay  it  home. 
You  are  not  so  well  to-day,  and  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  you  worried  with  giving  the  child*:  «-ri  their 
suppers  and  putting  them  to  bed.  John  arid  Char 
ity  are  rude  to  Margaret,  and  never  will  let  her 


DUTY   BEFORE    PLEASURE.  9 

.  do  anything  for  them  without  a  disturbance. 
Your  head  has  ached  dreadfully,  and  has  ortly 
been  easy  for  the  last  hour.  If  you  should  have 
to  spf  after  the  children,  the  pain  will  come  bacK, 
and  then  you  will  get  no  rest  all  night." 

Mrs.   Lee   did   not   immediately   reply.     Her 
feelings  were  touched   at  the  affectionate,  self- 
sacrificing  spirit  of  her  child.     But  she  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  having  her  forego  the  enjoy- 
J;          ment  of  a  social  evening  on  her  account. 

"  I  think,  Anna,"  she  at  length  said,  "  that  I 
am  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  it  will  not  hurt 
me  in  the  least  to  see  after  the  children.  So 
don't  think  anything  more  about  me,  but  go  and 
get  yourself  ready  at  once." 

!»  Anna  stood  in  an  attitude  and  with  an  expres 

sion  of  irresolution  upon  her  countenance. 

"  Go,  dear,"  urged  the  mother,  "  I  wish  you  to 
do  so." 

"  I  '11  go  and  see  after  the  children  first." 

And  Anna  passed  with  light  steps  from  the 
room. 

**  Dear,  good  girl !"  murmured  the  mother,  sink 
ing  languidly  back  in  her  chair,  as  her  daughtei 
vanished  from  her  sight. 

Anna  went  to  the  dining  room,  where  foui 
children  were  romping  and  making  a  loud  noisi 


10  THE    MAIDEN. 

— some  singing  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  and          ft 
^          others  pounding  on  the  floor,  and  dragging  about 
$          the  chairs.     Among  them  was  a  little  girl  named          4 
Mary,  four  years  old,  who  was  dancing  and  sing 
ing  as  loud  as  the  rest.     As  Anna  came  in,  she 
became  quiet,  drew  up  to  her  side  and  took  fait 
!          hold  of  her  hand. 

"John,"  said  Anna,  speaking  in  a  mild,  yet 

firm  voice  to  the  eldest  boy,  who  was  hammering 

5          on  the  floor,  "  Mother  is  not  well  this  evening.          •' 

j;          Your  noise  will  make  her  head  ache.-"  !; 

John  looked  up  at  his  sister  a  moment,  but  did 
not  heed  her  words.     He  continued  to  make  as 
«;          much  noise  as  before 

"I've  a  beautiful  ^toty  to  tell  you  all,"  the 
eider  sister  now  said. 

This  had  the  effect  she  desired.     John  threw 

down  his  hammer,  Charley  let  go  of  the  chair  he 

!J          was  dragging  around  the  room,  and  all  of  them 

£          gathered  quietly  around  their  sister,  and  looked 

up  eagerly  into  her  face. 

Anna  told  them  a  touching  little  story  about 
some  children  whose  mother  took  sick  and  died, 
and  left  them  to  be  taken  care  of  by  strangers, 
who  were  not  kind  to  them  as  their  own  dear 
mother  had  been.  Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  two 


DUTY   BEFORE    PLEASURE.  11 

of  the  children.  But  John,  though  interested, 
seemed  but  little  affected  by  the  rarrative. 

"  Tell  us  another  story,  sister,"  said  Mary. 

"  Yes,  sister,  do,3'  urged  the  other  children. 

And  Anna  told  them  another  story. 

"  Now  another." 

"I've  told  you  two  good  stories.  And  now  I 
must  get  you  all  your  suppers  " 

"You're  not  going  to  get  my  supper,"  said 
John,  in  an  ill-natured  tone.  "  I  shall  eat  with 
father  and  mother." 

"  And  so  shall  I,"  responded  Charley. 

"  Oh,  no,"  mildly  returned  Anna.  "  Mother 
has  been  sick  to-day;  so  you  must  all  eat  your 
suppers  together,  and  go  quietly  to  bed.  Your 
noise  disturbs  her." 

"To  bed,  indeed!  Ho!  ho!  I'm  not  going 
to  bed  this  two  hours  yet." 

"  0  yes,  John,  you  are*  If  mother  is  sick,  and 
wants  you  to  go  to  bed  early,  I  am  sure  you  will 
gs," 

"I'm  going  to  sit  up.  If  mother  is  sick,  my 
sitting  up  won't  hurt  her  I've  got  all  my  les 
sons  to  learn." 

"  You  can  study  them  in  the  morning  just  as 
well,  and  a  great  deal  better.  So,  John,  be  a  good 
boy,  and  eat  your  suppei  with  the  other  children." 


f 

I 

1 2  THE   MAIPEN. 

"No  I  won't — so  there  now,  Miss!  And  you 
need  not  say  another  word  about  it." 

Anna  sighed,  as  she  turned  away  from  her 
brother,  whose  natural  disposition  was  showing  its 
inherent  evil  tendencies  so  early,  and  began  to 
prepare  the  children's  suppei.  When  it  was 
ready,  she  lifted  the  two  younger  children,  Jane 
and  Mary,  into  their  places,  and  then  turning  to 
Charley,  she  stooped  over  him  and  whispered 
something  in  his  ear. 

The  boy  instantly  took  his  place  at  the  table, 
with  a  smile  upon  his  face;  But  John  was  not  to 
be  moved.  He  resolutely  persisted  in  refusing 
to  eat  his  supper  then. 

After  Anna  had  helped  all  the  little  ones  at  the 
table,  she  went  to  where  John  was  sitting  in  a 
chair,  in  a  sulky  mood,  and  taking  a  seat  beside 
^Tiim,  said,  in  a  calm,  mild  voice, 

"  John,  mother  has  not  been  well  all  day.  She 
has  suffered  very  much  with  head-ache,  and  is 
only  now  a  little  better.  I  want  to  go  out  this 
evening,  but  can't  begin  to  get  ready  until  I  have 
given  you  all  your  suppers,  and  seen  you  to  bed. 
Won't  you  then,  for  my  sake,  eat  with  the  other 
children  now,  and  then  go  to  bed  like  a  good  boy  Jw 

"  No,  I  will  not !"  Tlus  was  said  very  ill-na 
turedly. 


DUTY    BEFORE    T'JLASUBE.  13 

"  O  yes,  John,  I  am  sure  you  will." 
"  But  I  tell  you  I  won't.     I  'm  not  going  off  to 
oed  just  because  you  "/ish  me  to  do  so.     Go,  if 
J          you  want  to,  but  drr.'t  trouble  yourself  about  me. 
T'll  eat  my  supper  when  father  comes  home." 

Anna  was  grieved,  as  she  often  before  had  been, 
at  John's  unkindness  and  self-will.     And  she  even 
felt  a  rising  emotion  of  anger ;  but  this  she  quickly 
suppressed.     Turning  from  him,  she  waited  upon 
her  brother  and  sisters  who  were  at  the  table,  and 
when  they  were  done,  took  them  up  into  their 
chamber,  and  laid  them  all  snugly  in  their  beds  j 
not,  however,  before  telling  them  several  stories,          \ 
and  hearing  them  say  in  turn,  a  little  prayer.          «; 
j;          Kissing  each  sweet  faoe,  she  took  the  lamp,  and          J 
descended  to  the  dim'/  g-room.     It  was  nearly  an          J; 

hour  since  she  had  loft  her  mother  in  her  own 
)  .  s 

chamber.  She  four-1  John  still  fixed  in  his  reso 
lution  to  sit  up,  a-?  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

After  one  or  two  efforts  to  dissuade  him  from  his 

/  > 

purpose,  she  left  him  alone,  and  went  into  her 
mother's  room.  It  was  still  an  hour  before  Mr. 
Lee  was  expected  home.  J 

"  Why,  Anna,  dear,  why  are  you  not  getting 

to  go  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  ?" 
I've  just  got  the  children,  all  but  John,  off  to 
2 


14  THE    MAIDEN. 

bed.  He  wants  to  sit  up  and  eat  with  you  and 
father." 

"  Well,  let  him.  He  can  go  to  bed  himself 
when  he  gets  sleepy.  So  now  make  haste  and 
put  on  your  things." 

Anna  went  out,  and  ascended  to  her  own  cham 
ber.  But  she  was  little  inclined  to  do  as  her 
mother  had  urged  her.  The  effort  she  had  made 
to  induce  John  to  do  as  she  wished  him,  and  his 
unkind  return,  had  depressed  her  spirits,  and 
caused  her  to  feel  disinclined  to  go  into  company. 
But  thus  she  conquered  in  a  little  while,  and  recol 
lecting  that  she  was  to  be  called  for  at  seven,  she 
commenced  making  the  necessary  preparations- 
While  engaged  in  laying  out  and  arranging  the 
clothes  she  intended  wearing,  loud  and  angry 
words  were  heard  by  her  from  the  kitchen,  be 
tween  John  and  the  cook.  Descending  quickly, 
in  order  to  check  the  disturbance  before  it  should 
reach  the  ears  of  her  mother,  she  found  that  tiie 
perverse  boy  had  been  endeavouring  to  interfere 
with  some  of  the  cook's  operations.  That  indi 
vidual  justly  opposed  him,  and  this  produced  a 
contention  between  them,  the  result  of  which  was 
a  blow  over  John's  head  with  the  tongs,  well  laid 
on,  just  at  the  moment  of  Anna's  entrance.  John 
was  seizing  the  shovel,  when  his  sister  caught  h. 


DUTY   BEFORE    PLEASURE.  15 

arm.  Feeling  that  he  had  been  in  the  wrong, 
and  checked  by  Anna's  presence,  he  let  the  wea 
pon  fall  j  though  not  without  an  angrily  uttered 

\         threat  of  what  he  would  do  to  the  cook. 

Anna  now  decided  that  she  would  not  go  out. 
If  her  mother  had  been  well,  she  would  easily 
have  managed  John.  But  Anna  knew,  from  the 
excited  state  of  her  nerves,  that  if  she  were  com- 

jj  pelled  to  leave  her  room  to  check  such  a  scene, 
it  would  bring  back  upon  her  the  dreadful  head 
ache  and  sick  stomach  from  which  she  had  all 

;!         day  been  suffering. 

"  It  will  be  wrong  for  me  to  leave  her,  and  1 
will  not  do  so!"  she  said  to  herself,  resolutely. 

The  person  who  was  to  call  for  Anna,  and 
accompany  her  to  the  party,  was  a  young  man 
named  Herbert  Gardiner.  The  fair  young  face 
and  sweet  temper  of  Anna  Lee  had  won  upon  his 
feelings;  and,  in  consequence,  he  had  thrown 
himself  into  her  company  whenever  he  could  do 
so.  As  for  Anna,  all  unconfessed  to  herself,  her 
heart  had  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  young 
man.  The  fact  that  he  was  to  call  for  her  was  a 

?  ^  •  strong  inducement.  But  a  sense  of  duty  war  a 
much  stronger  feeling,  and  she  suffered  it,  as  hai 
been  seen,  to  prevail. 

Such  a  state  of  mind,  so  far  in  advance  of  mcwr 


16  THE    MAIDEN 

young  persons,  was  not  a  mere  natural  growth— 
was  not  the  regular  maturity  of  germs  of  good, 
hereditarily  derived.  It  was  the  result  of  sound 
maternal  precepts,  and  a  most  earnest  care  that 
the  tender  mind  of  hep  child,  in  its  development, 
•hould  be  moulded  into  a  right  form.  Early  had 
Mrs.  Lee  taught  her  first-born  the  highest  and 
best  lesson  a  human  being  can  learn — to  imi 
tate  God  in  seeking  to  bless  others.  She  had 
taught  her  to  deny  herself,  and  to  study  to  do 
good  in  all  the  relations  of  life.  It  is  true,  that 

;>  the  mother  had  a  sweet  temper  to  mould ;  and  a 

natural  ground  of  good  from  which  quickly  sprung 
into  existence  the  seed  she  scattered  with  a  liberal 

5  hand.  Still,  Anna  had  her  own  trials — her  own 

struggles  against  her  natural  evils,  that  would  lift 
their  deformed  heads  often  and  suddenly,  causing 
her  exquisite  pain  of  mind.  But  such  tempta 
tions,  and  the  consequent  disturbed  state,  were 
good  for  her.  They  made  her  humbly  conscious, 
that  in  herself,  she  was  weakness  and  evil,  and 
that  only  by  resisting  evil  daily  and  hourly,  could 
she  rise  into  true  moral  strength  and  beauty.  And 
it  was  because  she  thus,  in  conscious  weakness, 
strove  against  all  that  was  not  pure,  and  good,  and 
innocent  in  herself,  that  she  grew  daily  purer, 
better  and  more  innocent. 


DUTi'    BEFUIIE    PLEAS  DELE.  I? 

«: 

After  fully  deciding  in  her  own  mind  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  remain  at  home  with  her  mother, 
who  was  not  in  a  state  to  see  after  any  of  the 
children,  should  they  awake  and  cry,  as  was  often 
the  case,  and  need  attention,  she«went  into  her 
;!  chamber  and  said, 

"  I  believe,  mother,  I  will  remain  at  home  th'* 
jl         evening.     I  shall  not  feel  happy  if  I  go  out,  and  jj 

my  unhappiness  will  arise  from  a  consciousness  \ 

of  not  having  done  right.     Do  not  urge  me,  for  I 
believe  to  go  would  be  wrong." 

"  If  you  feel  so,  Anna,  I  will  not  say  one  word. 
Though  I  cannot  but  be  grieved  to  think  that  you 
are  deprived  of  the  pleasure  you  would  have  had 
at  Mrs.  Leslie's." 

"  Not  more  than  I  shall  gain  at  home,  mother. 
Young  as  I  am,  I  have  many  times  proved  the 
*ruth  of  what  I  have  often  heard  you  say — that 
the  highest  pleasure  we  ever  have,  is  that  inward 


peace  which  we  all  feel  when  we  have  denied 
ourselves  some  promised  gratification  for  the  sake 
of  doing  good  to  others." 

I  The  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  turned 

•     them  upon  her  daughter.     She  looked,  but  did  not 
speak  the  pleasure  she  felt. 

A  domestic  came  m  at  the  moment,  and  said 
that  a  gentleman  had  called  for  Anna. 
2* 


L 


18  THE    MAIDEN. 

"  Mr.  Gardiner,  I  suppose,"  Anna  said,  as  she 
arose  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  Mr.  Gardfner,  whom  she  found  in  the 
parlour. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Lee !"  he  said,  in  a  slight 
ly  disappointed  tone,  as  Anna  came  in.  "Are 
you  not  going  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  have 
been  at  the  trouble  to  call  for  me.  Mother  has 
been  quite  unwell  all  day,  and  I  do  not  think  I 
ought  to  leave  her." 

"So  you  do  not  intend  going?"  This  was 
spoken  in  a  still  more  disappointed  voice. 

"  No,  I  cannot  go  to-night.  It  would  be  wrong 
for  me  to  leave  my  mother,  and  I  try  never  to  do 
anything  that  I  clearly  see  to  be  wrong." 

But  this  noble-minded  declaration  did  not  awa 
ken  in  the  breast  of  Gardiner  a  responsive  admira 
tion.  He  was  disappointed,  and  he  could  not 
conceal  the  feeling. 

After  sitting  for  about  ten  minutes,  the  young 
man  went  away.  The  interview  was  not  pleasant 
to  either  of  them.  To  stay  at  home, from  a  party 
just  because  her  mother  was  not  very  well,  he 
considered  rather  a  stretch  of  filial  duty;  and 
she,  perceiving  the  true  character  of  his  thoughts, 
shrunk  from  him  instinctively. 


DUTY    BEFORE    PLEASURE.  19 

From  that  time,  Anna  received  his  attentions 
vith  embarrassment.  She  did  not  reason  much 
dbout  it.  She  only  felt  repulsed.  And  that  all 
this  was  right,  will  be  seen  in  the  next  chapter. 

Shortly  after  Gardiner  left,  Mr.  Lee  came  home. 
A  nna  was  still  sitting  in  the  parlour,  in  a  musing 
attitude. 

"Why,  how  is  this,  Anna?  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  to-night,"  he  said 
with  kind  interest,  sitting  down  by  her  side. 

"And  so  I  was.  But  you  know  mother  has 
;>  had  a  sick  head-ache  all  day." 

"  Yes.     How  is  she  to-night  P9 

"  She 's  a  great  deal  better." 

"  Then  why  couldn't  you  go  V9 

"  Because  the  children  are  very  apt  to  get  fret 
ful  and  troublesome,  and  sometimes  won't  let  any 
one  see  them  to  bed  but  mother  or  me.  So  I  thought 
it  best  to  give  them  their  suppers  first,  and  get 
them  quietly  put  away  for  the  night.  After  that 
was  done  I  began  to  fear  that  they  might  wake 
np,  as  is  often  the  case,  and  require  attention ;  and 
1  knew  if  mother  went  to  see  to  them,  her  head- 
\  .  ache  would  return.  She  needs  quiet  and  rest. 
Tlkese  will  be  everything  to  her.  If  I  had  gone 
'•!  oat,  and  anything  had  occurred  on  account  of  my 


20  THE    MAIDEN 

absence,  to  bring  back  her  illness,  I  should  have 
felt  very  unhappy  indeed." 

"  You  have  done  right,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Lee, 
kissing  affectionately  the  fair  cheek  of  his  daughter. 
"  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  been  deprived  of  the 
enjoyment  you  would  have  had  at  Mrs.  Leslie's ; 
but  it  is  all  for  the  best.     Even  in  the  least  things          (> 
of  our  life,  as  I  have  often  before  told  you,  there          ;» 
is  a  Providence."  ij 

"  I  believe  it,  father.     Already  it  has  occurred          ,'< 
to  me,  that  it  is  for  some  good  that  I  have  been 
prevented  from  boing  this  evening." 

"  It  doubtless  is,  my  child,"  returned  Mr.  Lee. 
"  Good  always  /prings  from  a  denial  of  ourselves 
in  order  to  be;  fit  others.  Ever  think  thus — ever 
act  thus — ar  ministering  angels  will  draw  near 
to  you,  and  guard  you  from  evil."  J 

Mr.  Lee's  voice  trembled  slightly  as  he  said  thin. 

"  But  I  must  go  up  and  see  your  mother,"  he 
added,  and  turning  from  Anna,  he  ascended  to 
Mrs.  Lee's  chamber.  < 


CHAPTER  H. 

GARDINER   S    TRUE    CHARACTER    EXHI 
BITED. 


ON  the  evening  previous  to  that  on  which  our 


story  opens,  three  or  four  young  men  were  seated 


around  a  table  in  a  public  house,  upon  which  were 
glasses,  decanters  and  cigars.  They  were  engaged 
in  playing  cards,  smoking  and  drinking.  Among 
them  was  Herbert  Gardiner. 

After  playing  at  whist  for  an  hour,  during 
which  time  several  five  dollar  bills  were  lost  and  < 

won,  cards  were  thrown  aside. 

"Give  us  a  song,  Gardiner.  You  have  been 
winner  to-night,  and  must  be  in  a  singing  hu 
mour,"  said  one  of  the  company. 

"  Let 's  have  another  drink  first,"  returned  Gar 
diner. 

Glasses  were  filled,  and  drained  to  the  bottom.  \ 

"  Now  for  the  song."  jj 

It  was  given  in  quite  a  spirited  style,  but  we 

cannot  repeat  it  here.     It  would  be  a  blot  upon 

HUT  pages 


jj  22  THE    MAIDEN. 

Bravos  followed  the  song,  and  another  was  called 
for. 

^  Gardiner  san.g  again  without  hesitation.     But, 

t          as  before,  his  song  was  grossly  indelicate. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  certain  young  lady  to 
i>          hear  you  sing  that  ?"  asked  one  of  the  party,  look 
ing  into  the  face  of  Gardiner  with  a  mischievr-ab 
smile. 

"  What  young  lady  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  That  very  modest  looking  one,  by  whose  side 


you  kept  so  close  at  Mrs.  Farnham's  last  week." 

"I  don't  take." 

"You  don't ?» 

«  No." 

"You 're  dull." 

"  Not  I.     Speak  out  plain." 

"  Miss  Lee." 

"  Oh  dear !"  And  Gardiner  tossed  his  head  half 
contemptuously. 

"  Why  I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  the         j 
girl  ?"  remarked  one  of  the  company. 

"  Indeed !  Did  you  suspect  me  of  such  a  weak 
ness  ?  Really  !  I  feel  complimented." 

There  was  something  in  the  face  of  Gardiner 
that  belied  his  words.  His  companions  noticed 
this,  and  rallied  him  more  strongly. 

"  He 's  over  head  arid  ears  m  love  with  her ' 


GARDINER'S  TRUE  CHARACTER.  23 

Fla !  ha !     See  his  face !     He  blushes,  absolutely 
Gardiner  blush !     That  is  a  phenomenon  i" 

"  Not  quite,"  returned  the  rallied  individual, 
regaining  the  serf-possession  he  had  momentarily 
$  lost.  "  I  believe  that  is  a  folly  of  which  I  have 
never  yet  been  guilty.  But  come,  gentlemen,  let 
us  be  serious  about  this  matter.  You  charge  me 
with  being  in  love  with  a  certain  Miss  Lee.  Now  !• 

for  the  proofs  ?" 

"  You  pay  particular  attention  to  her." 

"  Granted !  But  what  does  that  prove  ?  I  pay 
particular  attention  to  some  dozen  others.  You 
must  bring  forward  something  more  conclusive."  jj 

"  You  were  by  her  side  nearly  all  the  evening, 

\         at  Mrs.  Farnham's."  > 

f  (| 

[;  "  Because  she  seemed  so  pleased  with  my  con-  J; 

versation  that  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
*>reak  away  from  her."  $ 

"Oh  dear!" 

"A  fact." 

s  f> 

"  Then  the  girl 's  in  love  with  you."  s1 

"  That 's  another  matter  altogether."  And  the 
young  man  lifted  his  hands  and  eyebrows  in  mock  \ 

surprise.     "  I  Jm  sorry  for  her.     But  it  is  a  weak- 
£          K?JS  peculiar  to  her  sex." 

"  Aint  you  flattered?" 

u  Exceodingly." 


r 

24  THE   MAIDEN. 

"She's  a  right  nice  little  girl,  Gardiner.  I'd 
advise  you  follow  up  the  impression  you  have 
made." 

"  I  believe  -I  will." 

"  Do." 

"  I  will." 

«Ha!  ha!  That's  right.  Hurrah  for  Gardi 
ner  !  — Let  's  drink  to  his  success." 

"  Fill  the  glasses." 

"  Here 's  to  Anna  Lee !" 

"  Aye,  aye." 

"  Now  for  Herbert  Gardiner." 

The  glasses  were  again  drained. 

"  And  now  for  the  safe  termination  of  the  pro 
posed  courtship." 

"  No,  no." 

"What  then?" 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gardiner.     A-hem !" 

"  Oh !  aye !  that 's  it.     Fill  up  the  glasses." 

Very  soon  the  whole  party  were,  what  is  vul-  - 
garly  called — "  pretty  well  in  for  it."    More  songs 
were  demanded  and  sung.     They  were  scandal 
ously  obscene. 

'j  An   hour  longer  was   spent   by  these  foolish 

young  men  in  drinking,  singing  songs,  and  telling 
vulgar  stories,  when  they  separated. 

Let  the  reader  think  of  Anna  Lee  as  she  really 


GARDINER'S  TRUE  CHARACTER.  25 

was,  a  pure  minded  maiden — one  whose  imagina 
tion  had  never  been  shocked  with  the  picture  of 
a  scene  simile  to  that  which  we  have  just  de 
scribed — one  whose  heart  would'  have  shrunk 
away  end  trembled  could  she  have  witnessed  such 
a  scene, — and  then  think  of  Herbert  Gardiner  as 
a  lover ;  for  such,  he  in  reality  began  to  consider 
himself.  And  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  he  had 
made  8ome  impression  upon  her  feelings — that 
she  felt  more  than  an  ordinary  satisfaction  when 
he  was  by  her  side.  Does  an}  one  feel  pleasure 
at  the  thought  of  Anna  Lee  marrying  Herbert 
Gardiner  ?  Does  any  one  believe  that  he  could 

^         make  her  happy  ?     Her  mind  essentially  pure  — 

<J  his  mind  essentially  impure.  She  finding  her 
highest  delight  in  doing  good  to  others' — he  in 
gratifying  himself.  She  looking  upward  towards 
the  fountain  of  light  and  love  —  he  downward 

>         toward  things  sensual  and  corporeal.     Her  spirits          <; 
in  the  rising  scale  —  his  in  that  which  is  descend 
ing.     Shall  they  join  hands,  and  go  side  by  side          £ 
on  life's  journey  together  ?     God  forbid ! 

Gardiner  had.  seen  Anna  a  few  evenings  previ- 

!;  :>us  to  the  one  on  which  the  reader  has  seen  him 
with  his  gay  companions,  and  had  then  promised 
to  call  for  her,  and  go  with  her  to  Mrs.  Leslie'*. 

3 


26  THE    MAIDEN. 

He  did  call,  as  has  been  seen,  and  went  away, 
feeling  disappointed  and  half  angry  with  Anna. 

"  Too  bad !"   he  could  not  help  saying  half 
aloud,  as  he  turned  from  Mr.  Lee's  door.     "  The 
Filly  girl !     To  let  such  a  trifling  matter  keep  her 
at  home.     I  don't  believe  she  cares  a  fig  /or  me,         | 
or  she  would  have  gone  to  the  party,  after  I  called         \ 
for  her,  if  the  old  Harry  himself  had  stood  in  her 
way." 

u  I  don't  see  your  flame  here,"  whispered  one 
of  Gardiner's  companions  to  the  young  man,  com 
ing  to  his  side  soon  after  he  had  made  his  appear-         |» 
ance  at  Mrs.  Leslie's. 

"No.     Devil  take   the   luck!     She  wouldn't 
come !" 

u  Why  not?" 

"  Her  mamma 's  sick." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so." 

u  It  »s  a  fact."  . 

"  And  she  stays  away  on  that  account." 

"  So  she  says." 

"  Do  you  believe  her?" 

"  Yes.     I  suppose  she  gave  the  true  reason." 

"  Not  a  word  of  it.     She  meant  to  cut  you1?" 

"  Cut  me  ?"  in  surprise.     *'  Anna  Lee  cut  me  1 
You  must  be  joking!" 


L 


GARDINER'S  TRUE  CHARACTER.  27 

"No.  These  girls  are  queer  creatures,  seme- 
times." 

"  Humph !  I  'm  not  afraid.  She 's  to  be  wooed 
and  won  right  easily." 

"You  think  so?     Well,  success  to  your  suit.          jj 
She  is  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  I  have  ever  met. 
She  has  not  her  equal  here  for  beauty,  grace,  and 
sweetness  of  manner." 

"  You  are  right.     And  more  than  this,  she  has 
;>         intelligence  of  no  ordinary  kind.     Although  she          <! 
has  never  mingled  in  the  best  society,  and  is  still 
quite  young,  she  is  fit  to  grace  any  circle.     I  don't 
•J         know  her  equal.     But,  confound  it  all !  she  is  not 
here,  and  I  don't  care  a  fig  for  any  one  in  the 
room.     I  shall  make  myself  scarce  before  an  hour 
passes." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  An  hour  had  not 
expired  before  Gardiner  was  missed  from  the  gay 
circle,  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  drawing-room. 

This  young  man  was  the  son  of  a  retired  mer 
chant,  who  had  gained  in  trade  a  very  large  pro- 
j  .  pcrty.  Herbert,  his  only  child,  had  received  all 
(he  advantages  of  education  that  wealth  can  give : 
although,  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  had  improved 
those  advantages  in  any  remarkable  degree.  He 
was  bright  enough,  as  regards  intellect ;  but  a  high 


28  THE    MAIDEN 

motive  for  study  was  wanting.  His  father's  wealth 
and  social  standing,  left  him  but  little  to  strive  for. 
Old  Mr.  Gardiner  had  started  in  life  without 
friends  or  capital,  and  had,  by  honest  industry  and 
steady  perseverance,  worked  his  way  up,  until  he 
stood  side  by  side  with  the  most  successful.  He 

$  had  a  just  estimate  of  the  virtues  by  which  he  had 
risen  in  society,  and  often  strove  to  impress  his 

J  son  with  a  deep  regard  for  them.  But  his  pre 
cepts  did  not  take  very  deep  root  in  the  ground 
of  the  young  man's  mind. 

As  soon  as  he  came  home  from  college,  he  was 

«;  placed  in  a  mercantile  house.  He  did  not*  how 
ever,  take  much  interest  in  the  business,  although 
more  to  meet  the  requirements  of  his  father  than 
anything  else,  he  attended  to  his  duty  sedulously 

j          enough  to  prevent  his  employers  from  becoming 

S;  so  much  dissatisfied  with  him  as  to  dismiss  him. 
After  he  became  of  age,  his  father  proposed  that 
he  should  go  into  business  with  some  one  who  had 
less  capital,  but  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of 
trade  than  he  possessed.  Such  a  person  was  not 
hard  to  find.  A  young  man,  whose  only  capital 
was  business  capacity,  honesty,  and  energy  of 

;!  character,  soon  presented  himself.  With  him  a 
copartnership  was  formed,  and  a  capital  of  thirty 


GARDINER'S  TRUE  CHARACTER.  29 

\         thousand  dollars  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 

<!          new  firm. 

Satisfied  with  the  part  he  had  dori  ?      or,  the 

i  part  that  had  been  done  for  him,  viz.,  furnishing 
capita]  —  Gardiner  did  not  see  that  there  were  very 
strong  claims  on  him  for  personal  anplication. 
He  attended  at  the  store  daily,  and  took  a  certain 
part  in  the  general  operations  that  were  going  on, 
but  did  not  burden  his  mind  with  any  details,  nor 
trouble  himself  with  any  care  as  to  the  ultimate 

$  result  of  their  operations.  He  had  confidence  in 
his  partner,  who,  glad  to  get  capital  to  work  with, 

^  prosecuted  the  business  with  vigour  and  success, 
for  mutual  benefit.  As  for  Gardiner,  he  took  his 

;>  pleasure  in  his  own  way.  His  companions,  as  has 
been  seen,  were  not  of  the  safest  kind,  nor  his 
own  moral  character  likely  to  be  elevated  by  an 


association  with  them.  j, 

He  was  about  twenty-three  years  of  age  when 
<  he  saw  Anna  Lee,  and  became  charmed  with  her 
beauty.  He  first  m^t  her  upon  the  sti  eet.  For 
more  than  a  month  he  was  at  a  loss  to  find  out 
who  she  was,  and  this  very  mystery  in  regard  to 
her,  only  inflamed  the  passion  with  which  her 
sweet  face  had  inspired  him.  At  length  he  met 
her  in  company,  and  obtained  an  introduction. 
His  marked  attentions,  and  the  evident  pleasrire 

3*  ( 


J  30  TIffi    MAIDEN. 

he  felt  in  her  society,  did  not  escape  the  notac-e  of 
Anna,  nor  fail  to  make  an  impression  upoa  her. 
And  more  than  this,  she  was  not  insensible  to  { 
the  fact,  that  he  moved  in  a  higher  circle  t'haji  any 
to  which  her  position  in  society  would  admit  her. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  retired  merchant  oi  great  J 
wealth ;  she  the  daughter  of  a  man  in  moderate 
circumstances,  who  had  to  struggle  hard  to  sup 
port  and  educate  a  large  family.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  thought  of  Herbert  would  quicken  her 
pulse,  and  the  sigTit  of  him  make  the  blood  warmer 
on  her  cheek. 

The  reader  can  readily  perceive,  that  in  deci 
ding  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  party,  Anna  had 
exercised  no  ordinary  degree  of  self-denial.  Some 
may  think,  with  ,her  admirer,  that  her  reasons 
for  staying  at  home  were  hardly  strong  enough. 
Rut  we  are  sure  that  most  of  o*ir  readers  wili  ap- 
>:  nrcre  her  conduct. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

THE  BEAUTY  AND  POWER  OF  GOODNESS 

ANNA  remained  sitting  in  a  slightly  pensive 
mood,  in  the  parlor  below,  after  her  father  lelt 
ner.  The  manner  of  Gardiner  had  disturbed  hei 
feelings.  It  opened  up  to  her  eyes  a  new  view  of 
his  character.  It  presented  him  to  her  from  a 
new  point  of  vision.  She  had  denied  herself  a  '•', 

desired  pleasure  for  the  sake  of  a  sick  parent,  and 
he  had  not  approved  the  act  —  nay,  had  clearly 
disapproved  it.  j; 

"Have  I  done  right  or  wrong?'  she  asked 
herself.  J; 

Then  reviewing  her  conduct,  and  weighing  all 
the  reasons  that  had  decided  her  course  of  action, 
she  murmured,  "  Right,"  and  rose  to  her  feet.  The 
tea  bell  rang  at  the  moment,  and  she  ascended  to 
the  dining-room,  to  meet  her  father  and  mother, 
with  a  cheerful,  happy  face. 

"  I  '11  pour  out  the  tea,"  she  said,  as  her  mother 
came  in,  leaning  upon  her  father's  arm.  "  You 
take  my  place." 

(31) 


32  THE   MAIDEN. 

"No,  dear.     I   can  wait   on    the   table 
enough,"  returned  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  But  I  can  do  it  better.     So  sit  down  .n  my          <) 
place." 

"Yes,  dear,  you  had  better,"  said  Mr.  Lee, 
"Even  the  slight  exertion  of  pouring  out  the  tea          ] 
may  disturb  your  nervous  system  too  much,  and          J 
bring  back  that  dreadful  pain  in  your  head.     Let 
Anna  wait  on  the  table,  this  evening." 

Mrs.  Lee  objected  no  farther,  and  Anna  did  the 
honours  of  the  table. 

John  was  very  quiet,  and  had  a  thoughtful  look. 
The  fact  was,  remembering  that  Anna  had  urged         !; 
him  to  eat  his  supper  and  go  to  bed  when  the 
other  children  did,  because  she  wished  to  go  out,         J; 
and  seeing  that,  although  called  for,  she  had  yet         jj 
remained  at  home,  he  felt  that  he  had  been  unkind 
to  one  who  was  always  kind  to  him,  and  who,  on 
account  of  his  perverseness  and  ill-nature,  had 
been  deprived  of  an  expected  enjoyment.     Had         j 
Anna  permitted  herself  to  get  angry  with  John, 
and  been  led  to  speak  to  him  from  that  state,  he 
would  have  remained  indifferent.     But  the  gentle 
forbearance   and    self-denial   of  his   elder   sister 
^          touched  the  boy,  and  awakened  his  better  feelings. 
After  tea  he  called  her  aside,  and  told  her  he 
wanted  to  go  to  bed,  and  that  he  was  sorry  he  had 

\  I 


sented  her  reasons  in  such  a  way,  that  I  could  not 
strongly  oppose  her." 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  OF  GOODNESS.      33 

not  done  as  she  wished  him  to  do  before.  She 
forgave  him  with,  a  kiss,  when  the  boy  threw  his 
arms  around  her  neck  and  burst  into  tears.  |> 

"  You  are  so  good,  and  I  am  so  bad,"  he  sobbed. 
"  0  sister,  I  wish  I  could  be  as  good  as  you  are." 

With  kind  words  Anna  soothed  her  brother's 
mind,  and  urged  him,  in  future,  to  try  and  love 
all  around  him,  and  to  be  obedient  to  the  wishes 
of  those  who  sought  to  do  him  good.  He  promised 
never  to  disregard  what  she  should  say  to  him, 
and  to  strive  and  conquer  his  bad  temper. 
;•  She  kissed  the  penitent  boy  again,  and  he  went 

with  subdued  feelings,  but  strong  resolutions  to  do  s' 

right  in  future,  up  to  his  chamber. 

u  What  a  dear  good  girl  our  Anna  is,"  said  Mr  \ 

Lee,  after  Anna,  on  leaving  the  tea-table,  had  been 
drawn  out  of  the  room  by  John. 

"  She  is  a  blessing  to  our  house,"  returned  Mrs. 
Lee,  earnestly.  "  What  should  I  do  without  ,her  ? 
For  my  sake,  she  has  denied  herself  the  pleasure 
of  going  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  to-night,  although  she 
had  made  every  preparation,  and  had  promised 
herself,  I  know,  much  enjoyment.  I  urged  her 
not  to  think  of  me ;  but  she  was  firm,  and  pre- 


34  THE    MAIDEN. 

"  She  has  acted  from  a  sense  of  right,  and  I  am 
glad  that  she  has  done  so."  ;> 

"  1  cannot  but  say  the  same,  although  my  feel 
ings  have  plead  strongly  for  her ;  and  I  have  felt 
sad  to  think  that  my  indisposition  was  the  cause 
of  her  disappointment." 

"To  me,"  returned  the  husband  and  father, 

<;  "  this  little  incident,  trifling  as  it  may  seem,  has         !; 

given  a  deeper  satisfaction  than  anything  that  has         j; 
occurred  for  a  long  time.     I  see  in  it  the  true  safe 
guard  for  our  child,  in  this  the  most  danger-fraught         !; 
period  of  her  whole  life.     She  is  beautiful,  inno- 

^  cent,  accomplished.     To  know  her  is  but  to  love 

her.     Already  we  find  that  many  young  men  are 

£  beginning   to   seek   her   acquaintance.     That   in 

j  company  sne  is  courted,  and  her  hand  sought  in 

the  dance  by  those  who  have  strong  powers  to 
captivate  a  maiden's  heart.  If  a  love  of  doing 
right — if  a  spirit  of  self-denial  for  the  good  of 
others — be  the  principles  that  rule  in  her  life, 
they  will  be  as  a  panoply  of  defence  for  her  in  the 
dangerous  paths  through  which  she  will  have  to 
walk.  We  cannot  keep  our  child  out  of  the  way  jj 
of  temptation.  We  can  only  give  her  true  prin 
ciples  to  sustain  her  in  them."  ff 

"Yes,  yes,"  returned  the  mother,  in  a  hal! 
musing  tone,  replying  only  to  a  portion  of  her  hus- 


BEAUTY  AND  POWER  OF  GOODNESS.      35 

band's  remarks  —  "she  is  already  awaking  in  the 
minds  of  those  with  whom  she  associates,  something 
j»  deeper  than  a  passing  regard.  One  young  man,  I 
nave  noticed  of  late,  who  is  more  than  others 
attentive  to  her.  He  called,  by  appointment,  to 
go  with  her  to  the  party  to-night." 

"Who  is  it P 

"  Young  Gardiner." 

"  Indeed !"  This  was  said  with  apparent  plea- 
',  sure.  "  I  saw  him  dance  with  her  through  two 
sets  at  Mrs.  Farnhain'c,  and  chat  with  her  after 
wards  a  good  deal ;  but  I  supposed  him  nothing 
more  than  a  dancing  acquaintance.  And  he  really 
called  here  V* 

"  Yes." 

"  Herbert  Gardiner  belongs  to  one  of  the  best 
families  in  the  city." 

"  Yes,  and  his  father  is  said  to  be  a  man  of  im- 
mense  wealth." 

The  father  and  mother  ventured  no  more.  The 
fact  that  young  Gardiner  seemed  inclined  to  be 
pleased  with  their  daughter,  gratified  them  both 
more  than  they  were  willing  to  express  to  each 
other. 

When  Anna  re-entered  the  room,  and  their  eyei 
rested  upon  her  face,  it  was  with  warmer  affec 
tions,  mingled  with  something  of  pride. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

F^      .      MAIDEN    DELICACY    AND    ITS    OPPO 
SITE    CONTRASTED. 

<f  WHAT  in  the  world  kept  you  away  from  Mrs. 
Leslie's?'  said  a  young  friend  and  companion, 
about  her  own  age,  who  called  in  to  see  Anna  Lee 
on  the  next  day.  Her  name  was  Florence  Armi- 
tage.  "  We  had  a  most  delightful  time.  Every 
body  was  asking  for  you,  and  everybody  was  dis 
appointed  at  your  absence.  I  was  afraid  you  were 
sick,  and  have  called  in  to  see.  What  did  keep 
away  ?" 

"  Mother  was  not  well,  and  I  did  not  think  it 
right  to  go  out  and  leave  her." 

"Was  she  very  ill?' 

"  She  had  one  of  her  violent  attacks  of  head 
ache,  and  was  in  bed  nearly  all  day." 

"  I  'm  sorry.     But  did  that  keep  you  at  home  V 

"  Yes.  The  children  were  to  look  after,  and, 
I  knew  if  I  were  out  of  the  way,  and  mother  not 
able  to  attend  to  them,  that  there  would  be  trouble. 
Something,  I  was  afraid,  might  occur  to  disturb 

C36x 


TRUE   MAIDEN    DELICACY.  37 

her  TTOuiG,  and  bring  back  the  head-ache  j  and  then 
she  would  have  been  sick  all  night.  I  would 
rather  have  missed  a  dozen  parties,  than  that 
should  have  happened." 

Florence  did  not  seem  altogether  satisfied  that 
the  mere  fact  of  her  mother's  not  being  well,  was 
»  sufficient  reason  why  Anna  should  forego  the 
pleasures  of  company.  But  she  did  not  say  this. 
She  only  remained  silent  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  then  began  to  speak  of  the  delightful  time 
they  had  had. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  have  spent  a  more  plea 
sant  evening,"  she  said.  "  We  missed  you  very 
much.  And  that  isn't  all.  Your  absence  deprived 
us  of  the  company  of  another,  whose  presence  all 
;>  would  have  welcomed.  Or,  at  least,  it  was  the 
^  opinion  of  some  of  us  that  such  was  the  case." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  asked  Anna. 

"  Of  a  certain  young  man." 

The  eyes  of  Anna  fell  to  the  floor  for  an  instant. 
Then  raising  them  to  the  face  of  her  friend,  she 
ij  said, 

"Speak  out,  Florence.  Who  do  you  mean? 
I  know  of  no  one  who  was  absent  on  my  account." 

"  0,  yes  you  do." 

"No,  Florence." 

u  Mr.  Gardiner  was  not  there."    And  as  Flo- 


d»  THE   MAIDEN. 

f 

rence  said  this  she  looked  at  Anna  with  an  arch 
smile. 

The  latter  could  not  prevent  a  soft  blush  from 
stealing  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  again 
cast  upon  the  floor.  Lifting  them,  however,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause,  she  said  to  her  friend  in  a 
serious  voice, 

"  Florence,  are  you  sure  Mr.  Gardiner  was  not 
there  V9 

"  He  came,  it  is  true ;  but  only  staid  a  little 
while.  It  was  almost  as  good  as  if  he  hadn't  been 
.here  at  all." 

"But  you  ought  not  to  say  that  my  absence         «; 
kept  him  away."  sj 

"  No.  Only  that  your  absence  caused  him  to 
go  away."  This  was  laughingly  said. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  draw  such  an  inference, 
Florence.  I  would  much  rather  it  should  not  be 
done.  I  am  yet  too  young  to  have  my  name 
associated  with  that  of  any  young  man." 

"  What  harm  can  it  do,  Anna  ?     I  am  sure  you          $ 
needn't  be  ashamed  to  have  your  name  mentioned          ? 
with  that  of  Herbert  Gardiner.     7  certainly  should 
not.     I  only  wish  he  would  take  a  fancy  to  me. 
Mother  would  have  to  have  something  more  than 
ajwck  head-ache  to  cause  me  to  decline  going  to 


TRUE    MAIDEN    DELICACY.  39 

( 

a  party  with  him.  Such  a  prize  don't  go  a  beg- 
£  ging  every  day." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  a  prize  ?" 

"Why?"  And  Florence  looked  really  sur 
prized  at  th  3  question.  "  Why  ?  Isn't  he  ncn  ? 
Isn't  he  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  agreeable 
young  men  you  have  ever  seen  ?  I  don't  think 
you  can  point  out  his  equal.  Try  now,  and  see 
!  if  you  can  ?" 

"  As  to  that,  my  acquaintance  with  young  men 

is  not  very  extensive.     I  am  not  prepared  to  make 

J          any  comparisons.     As  I  before  said,  I  am  yet  too 

young  to  suffer  my  mind  to  become  interested  in 

these  matters."  ;> 

"How  old  are  you,  pray?  Perhaps  I  have 
mistaken  your  age.  Are  you  fifteen  yet  ?"  This 
was  said  laughingly. 

"  I  believe  I  am  about  eighteen." 

"It  isn't  possible!  And  too  young  to  make 
comparisons  between  young  men,  or  have  a  lover 
Why,  I  'm  not  quite  your  age,  and  I  have  had  tw< 
or  three  lovers.  It 's  delightful !" 

Anna  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  you  like  young  Gardiner,"  continued 
the  friend.  "  You  can't  help  it.  And  all  I  blame 
you  for,  is  that  you  did'nt  go  to  Mrs.  Lesb'  a's  with 
him,  through  thick  and  thin." 


jj  40  THE    MAIDEN. 

5  "And  neglect  a  sick  mother?" 

"  It  wasn't  any  serious  matter  ;  that  you  know 
well.     Only  a  sick  head-ache.     You  could  have 
>  gone  well  enough." 

jj  "  Not  with  a  clear  conscience,  Florence,  and 

without  that,  I  could  not  have  been  happy  any 
where.  External  circumstances  are  nothing  in 
the  scale  of  happiness,  if  all  be  not  right  within. 
I  can  say  from  my  heart,  that  I  enjoyed  myself 
far  more  at  home  than  I  could  possibly  have  done 
at  Mrs.  Leslie's,  no  matter  who  was  or  was  not 
there." 

"  You  dont  deny,  then,  that  you  like  young 
Gardiner  ?"  ,' 

"  I  said  nothing  in  regard  to  him.    Why  should         t 
I  deny  or  affirm  on  the  subject1?  •  I  don't  know 
anything  about  him.     I  have  only  seen  him  a  few         ^ 
times  in  company ;  and  I  would  be  a  weak  one,          < 
indeed,  either  to  think  or  wish  myself  beloved  by 
a  man  who  is  almost  a  total  stranger." 

"  He  is  no  stranger.     Doesn't  every  one  in  the 
city  know  his  family  and  standing  ?" 

"  But  what  do  you  or  I  know  about  him  ?     Of 
his  feelings,  character,  or  principles  ?" 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl  to  talk,  Anna." 

"  I  tH.nk  not.     Isn't  it  of  importance  to  know 
something  of  the  governing  principles.  y£  i  he  ZLUI 


TRUE    MAIDEN    DELICACY.  4u 

whose  attentions  are  received  1 — Who  is  admitted, 
as  your  intimate,  in  the  character  of  a  lover  I" 
J  "  Certainly.     But,  then,  it  is  easy  enough  for 

any  one  to  see,  at  a  glance,  what  a  young  man  is. 
i         I  can  do  so.     There  is  young  Hartley,  who  tries 
to  be  so  gracious  with  me.     It  is  no  hard  matter 
5          to  see  what  he  is." 
\  "  How  do  you  estimate  him  V9 

j  "As  a  very  narrow-minded  person.     I  don't 

like  him  at  all." 
"Why?" 

"I  have  just  said.      Because  he  is  narrow 
minded." 

"  That  is,  you  think  so.  Now,  I  differ  in  opin 
ion,  judging  from  the  few  opportunities  I  have  had 
of  observing  him.  I  should  call  him  a  young  man 
of  strong  good  sense ;  and  one  who  could  never 
stoop  to  a  mean  action." 
,  "  You  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  not.     As  before  intimated,  I  do  not 
think  much  about  the  characters  of  young  men." 
"It  seems  you  have  thought  about  Hartley's 
character." 

"  My  opinion  of  him  is  only  one  of  those  first 
impressions  whicn  are  usually  received  by  us  all. 
I  have  met  him  some  three  or  four  times,  and  in 
every  conversation  I  have  had  with  him,  I  have 
4* 


4-2  THE   MAIDEN. 

been  pleased  to  remark  a  strong  regard  for  truth 
and  honour,  and  a  generous  feeling  towards  every 
one,  except  those  who  deliberately  do  wrong." 

"  But  he  is  mean,  I  am  sure." 

"How?" 

"  Narrow  minded,  as  I  have  said.  Penurious, 
if  you  please." 

"  As  to  the  latter,  I  have  no  means  of  judging. 
How  do  you  know  it  ?" 

Florence  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said  — 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Fanny  Ellsler,  you  remem 
ber,  was  here  three  or  four  weeks  ago.  A  few 
of  us  girls  were  dying  to  see  her,  and  we  hatched 
up  a  plot  among  ourselves,  that  we  would  make 
;>  some  of  our  gentlemen  acquaintances  take  us  to  the 

theatre." 

"  Why  Florence !"  ejaculated  Anna,  in  grave 
astonishment. 

"  To  be  sure  we  did !  You  need  not  look  moon 
struck  about  it.  Where  is  the  harm,  I  wonder  ? 
Well !  I  talked  at  Hartley  until  I  was  downright 
ashamed  of  myself,  but  the  mean  fellow  wouldn't 
take.  Sarah  Miller  had  no  trouble  at  all  with  Mr. 
Granger.  She  had  only  to  turn  the  conversation 
upon  Ellsler,  and  then  express  a  strong  desire  to 
see  her,  to  be  invited  at  once.  Harriet  Jones  did 
the  same  with  young  Erskine,  and  aU  was  settled 


TRUE  MAIDEN  DELICACY.  43 

to  her  heart's  content.     But  I  tried  my  best,  and 
Hartley  would  not  understand  me." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Anna,  curious  to 
learn  how  the  young  man  had  received  such  a 
strange  application — for  such  it  really  was. 

"  Oh !"  tossing  her  head,  "  he  affected  to  disap 
prove  of  the  attendance  of  young  ladies  at  the 
theatre — at  least  while  these  public  dancers  were 
exhibiting  themselves." 

"  My  father  thinks  as  he  does." 

"  As  to  that,  so  does  mine.  But  I  don't  agree 
with  him  in  all  his  opinions.  He 's  like  a  great 
many  other  old  people  ;  old-fashioned  in  his  no 
tions,  and  full  of  prejudice  against  modern  im 
provements." 

"  But,  would  you  have  gone  to  see  Fanny  Ells- 
ler  dance  against  your  father's  wishes  ?" 

"  Would  I  ?    Certainly  I  would — and  did." 

"  Florence !" 

"  Certainly.   If  I  were  to  do  only  as  he  thought 
and  said,  I  would  have  to  give  up  all  pleasure. 
Hartley  wouldn't  take  me,  and   so  I  tried  Mr. 
i          Archer ;  who  did  not  need  a  second  hint." 

"Not  William  Archer!" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  really  go  to  the  theatre  with  William 
\         Archer*" 


44  THE    MAIDEN. 

1 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Anna  Lee,  with  a 
look  of  deep  regret,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  jj 
arm  of  her  young  and  thoughtless  companion, 
"  how  could  you  be  so  unguarded  ?  —  how  could 
you  be  so  imprudent  ?  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
his  character  is  very  bad." 

"  With  that,  you  know,  I  had  nothing  to  do.         «; 
I  merely  went  to  see  Fanny  Ellsler  with  him,  and 
was  much  obliged  to  him  for  taking  me.     His 
character,  good  or  bad,  can  have  no  effect  upon 
me." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Yes ;  very  sure.   What  effect  could  it  have  ?" 
|j  "  Apart  from  the  friendly  feelings  you  may  have 

entertained  for  a  bad  man,  which  are  always  more 
or  less  injurious  to  an  innocent-minded  woman, 
you  have  placed  yourself  in  a  position  that  may 
cause  you  to  be  lightly  spoken  about  by  those  who 
do  not  know  you.  Whenever  a  woman  appears 
f  at  any  place  of  public  amusement  with  a  man  of 
notoriously  bad  character,  she  becomes,  in  a  de 
gree,  tainted.  Light  things  are  said  about  her,  and 
she  no  longer  holds  that  position  in  the  minds  of 
truly  virtuous  persons  that  she  did  before." 

"  You  speak  from  the  book.    H  ow  do  you  know 
all  this?" 


J  TRUE   MAIDEN    DELICACY.  45 

1  (.have  heard  my  mother  say  as  much,  and  in 
<**.*  judgment  I  have  great  confidence.  Besides, 
it  is  a  truth  that  must  be  apparent  on  the  least 
reflection." 

5  "  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  have  heard  my  mother  say 

',;         such  things  a  hundred  times  over.     But  I  let  them 

;•         go  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.     These  old 

people  think  it  necessary  to  give  line  upon  line, 

!j         and  precept  upon  precept,  here  a  little  and  there 

a  good  deal,  to  us  young  things,  as  if  we  had  no 

more  sense  than  little  children,  and  were  blind 

5         as  bats." 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong  to  talk  so.     I  am  very 
careful  never  to  do  anything  against  my  mother's          ;• 
opinion  of  right."  «J 

<  "  Does  your  mother  approve  of  the  theatre  ?" 

<  "  Not  in  its  present  state." 

"  Have  you  never  been  there  ?" 
%  "  0  yes.     Several  times." 

"Indeed!  And  against  your  father  and  mo 
ther's  opinion  as  to  its  being  a  proper  place  for 
young  ladies  ?" 

I  "No — for  I  was  not  made  fully  acquainted 

with  their  views  on  the  subject,  until  after  I  had 
I          been  for  a  few  times." 

"  Who  went  with  you  ?" 
"  My  father  and  mothrr." 


46  THE   MAIDEN. 

Florence  lifted  her  hands  in  astonishment. 

"  Your  father  and  mother  take  you  to  the  thea 
tre  !  Goodness !  Mine  would  as  soon  take  me  to 
my  grave." 

"  Are  they  not  aware  of  the  fact  that  you  went 
to  see  Fanny  Ellsler?" 

"They?  No  indeed!  And  I  wouldn't  have 
them  find  it  out  for  the  world.  It  would  almost  |j 
kill  them.  They  would  think  I  was  ruined  com-  jj 
pletely." 

"  Such  being  the  case,  Florence,  I  cannot  but 
'  say,  that  I  think  you  have  done  a  double  wrong — 
first,  in  deceiving  your  excellent  father  and  mo 
ther  ;  and  next,  in  going  to  the  theatre  with  a  man 
whom  every  pure-minded  woman  should  shun 
with  horror." 

"  In  that  we  may  differ  in  opinion.     But,  there 
I  is  one  thing  that  I  do  not  exactly  understand," 

replied  Florence  Armitage;  "and  that  is,  how 
your  father  and  mother  could  take  you  to  the 
theatre  when  they  disapprove  of  theatrical  repre 
sentations." 

"No — don't  misunderstand  them.  They  do 
not  disapprove  of  scenic  representations  in  the 
abstract,  but  of  theatres  as  now  conducted.  If  the 
stage,  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  were  only  made 
an  accessory  to  virtue,  it  would  be  all-powerful 


TRUE   MAIDEN   DELTCACY.  47 

for  good,  because  principles  are  seen  and  felt  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  when  in  ulhmates  j  that  is,, 
when  brought  out  into  their  lowest  and  fullest 
plane  of  activity,  or,  in  other  words,  personified." 

"  But  still  I  do  not  understand  how  your  father 
could  take  you  to  the  theatre  as  it  is,  when  he 
disapproves  of  it." 

"I  can  explain  that.  H>  knew  that  I  must 
hear  the  stage  alluded  to — he  knew  then  my 
imagination  must  be  excited  by  glowing  represen 
tations  of  its  attractions,  and  he  feared  that,  possi 
bly,  I  might  be  tempted  to  do  as  you  have  done." 

"How?" 

"  Go  without  a  parent's  knowledge." 

"  Well,  never  mind  that.     Go  on." 

"  He,  therefore,  determined  to  go  with  me  him 
self,  to  guard  me  from  evil.  To  go  with  me 
himself,  and  point  out  the  perversions  of  the 
drama  so  clearly  that  I  might  see  them  myself, 
and  from  a  rational  conviction  shun  their  false 
allurements." 

"  And  did  he  succeed  ?  Could  you  see  the  evil 
he  was  so  anxious  to  point  out  ?" 

"  Clearly.  It  was  as  plain  to  my  eyes  as  a 
dark  spot  in  the  beautiful  azure  of  heaven." 

"  Indeel '  I  must  have  been  blind  then  j  for 
I  could  never  see  it." 


4-8  THE   MAIDEN.  J 

< 

"And  my  vision  might  have  been  obscured, 
had  not  there  been  one  by  my  side  to  take  the 
mist  from  my  eyes." 

"  What  great  evil  did  you  discover  ?"  J 

u  I  saw  that  vice  and  crime  are  too  often  made 
attractive,  instead  of  being  condemned.     Let  me 
give  an  instance.     On  one  occasion  my  father         > 
took  me  to  see  the  opera  of  Fra  Diavalo." 

«  Were  you  not  delighted  ?" 

"  I  was  very  much  pleased.  The  music  of  the 
piece  was  exquisite.  Some  of  the  chorusses  have 
haunted  me  ever  since." 

^  "  And  were  you  not  struck  with  the  bold  bear 

ing,  the  nobility,  if  I  may  so  speak,  of  Fra  Dia 
blo  himself?" 

"  I  must  confess  that  my  sympathies  were  too 
much  with  him ;  and  that,  when  he  was  circum 
vented  and  killed  at  last,  I  was  disappointed.     On         J 
\  returning  home,  my  father  said  — '  How  were  you 

pleased  Anna  ? 

"  <  Oh,  I  was  delighted,'  I  replied. 

E;  u  l  Do  you  think  that  representation,  aided  by 

guch  noble  music,  calculated  to  inspire  any  heart 
witn  a  love  of  virtue  ?'  j! 

"  This  was  putting  a  new  face  upon  the  matter 
Such  a  thought  had  not  once  occurred  to  me. 


U-*-ru-\<-v*_r\>-wt 

TRl/F   MAIPEN   DELICACY.  49 

0 

"  *  The  b/igand's  song  was  encored.  Were  you 
pleased  to  hear  it  again  V 

"'Yes,' I  replied. 

" '  Did  your  mind  revolt  at  the  sentiments  P 

** '  No,'  I  answered. 

" '  Why  P  he  continued. 

"  '  It  was  the  music,  I  suppose,  that  made  even 
cruel  words,  and  a  boast  of  evil  deeds,  pleasamV 

"'Yes,  that  was  it,  aided  by  the  external 
attractions  of  beautiful  scenery,  and  a  gay  com 
pany,  apparently  filled  with  delight  at  the  bri 
gand's  rehearsal  of  his  valiant  achievements.' 

"  *  Do  you  think  it  good  to  feel  such  pleasure          j 
at  witnessing  the  representation  of  evil?'  asked 
my  father. 

"  I  could  not  but  answer  '  No.'  ;• 

" '  Suppose,'   he  continued,    '  that  the  spirited          s 
air  just  alluded  to,  had  been  sung  to  true  and  ele 
vating  sentiments — to  a  national  song,  for  instance, 
inspiring  the   heart  with  a  love  of  country - 
would  not  every  one  who  heard  it,  and  in  whose 
memory  it  fixed  itself  as  a  familia^  friend,  feel  a  <1 

deeper  love  of  his  country  tnan  he  had  ever  known 
before  ?  Extend  it  farther.  You  doubtless  felt  an 
emotion  of  pain,  when  •  the  brigand  lost  his  life. 
That  is,  you  regretted  to  see  a  robber  and  mur 
derer  receive  the  just  reward  of  his  deeds ;  for  all 
5 


50  THE    MAIDEN. 

the  charms  of  music,  scenery,  and  inspiring  cir 
cumstances,  had  led  your  mind  away  into  an 
overmastering  sympathy  with  a  bold  brigand. 
How  much  better,  had  the  hero  of  the  opera  bet  a 
a  true  nobleman  of  nature ;  one  who  sought  the 
good  of  his  fellows ;  one  who  could  perform  deeds 
of  daring — could  be  bold,  and  brave,  and  noble 
in  the  cause  of  virtue.  No  harm,  but  great  good 
would  result  from  such  representations.  The 
stage  would  be  the  hand-maid  of  morality  and 
religion,  if  pledged  to  virtue,  as  it  now,  alas 
seems  pledged  to  vice.  You  understand,  now, 
my  child,  I  hope,  why  I  think  it  is  not  good  for 
young  persons  to  visit  the  theatre,  as  it  now  is  ?' 

"I  could  not  but  approve  all  my  father  hnd 
said.  His  remarks  opened  up  to  my  mind  a  new 
view.  He  had  given  me  a  standard  by  which  to 
estimate  the  stage,  and  I  could  now  determine  its 
quality  for  myself.  And  I  do  determine,  and  pro 
nounce  its  tendency  to  be  downward,  and  its 
effects  injurious  to  young  minds." 

"Really!  you  meet  the  whole  matter  in  *he 
broadest  manner,  Then  you  think  there  is  rw 
good  whatever  in  the  stage  as  it  now  is  V9 

"  If  there  were  no  good  at  all — if  all  were  evil, 
in  scenic  representations,  as  they  are  now  con 
ducted — my  father  says,  and  it  seems  reasonable, 


TRUE   MAIDEN   DELICACY.  51 

that  they  would  no  longer  be  permitted  to  exist  in 
the  order  of  Providence.  There  cannot  be  such  a 
thing,  he  says,  as  mere  gratuitous  evil;  that  is, 
evil  which  is  not  permitted,  in  order  to  elevate 
some  from  lower  degrees  of  depravity,  or  to  pre 
vent  their  sinking  into  deeper  moral  obscurity. 
In  all  the  representations  of  real  life  that  we  see 
upon  the  stage,  we  find  something  that  is  good — 
something  that  impresses  the  mind  with  the  beauty 
of  truth  and  virtue  —  something  that'  makes  us  jj 
think  of  God  as  a  Divine  guide  and  protector.  J 
Take,  for  instance,  in  the  opera  just  alluded  to, 
that  portion  of  the  chamber  scene  in  which  Zer- 
lina  murmurs  a  prayer  in  her  sleep,  and  the  hand 
of  the  assassin,  already  raised  to  strike  her  inno 
cent  heart,  is  stayed,  and  the  wretch  shrinks  away 
in  trembling  consciousness  that  He  to  whom  that 
prayer  was  sweetly  breathed,  even  in  sleep,  wsu 
present.  That  was  good.  It  was  a  boldly  redeem 
ing  point,  and  could  not  fail  to  make  a  due  im 
pression  on  every  mind.  Have  you  seen  Fra 
Diavalo  P9 

"Oyes." 

"  You  remember  the  scene  *?" 

"  Yes.    It  was  more  distinctly  impressed  ujwn 
my  mind  than  any  other." 

"  How  were  you  affected  by  it  v> 


THE   MAIDEN. 

"  Not  pleasantly." 

"Why?" 

"  It  cause^  me  to  recollect,  too  distinctly,  that 
I  was  at  that  very  moment  acting  directly  in  op 
position  to  the  wishes  of  my  father  and  mother ; 
that  I  could  not  now  pray,  as  I  had  once  prayed 
in  earlier  years,  that  God  would  watch  over  me 
while  in  sleep." 

"  You  can  now  understand,  I  am  sure,  what  I 
mean  by  the  balance  of  good  yet  to  be  found  in 
the  stage." 

"  Yes,  Anna,  I  do,"  Florence  said,  after  a  silence 
of  nearly  a  minute.     She  spoke  in  a  voice  that         ;> 
was  slightly  touched  with  sadness.     "  And  from 
my  heart,  I  wish  that  my  parents  had  laid  aside  a 
portion  of  their  prejudice,  and  taken  me  to  the 
theatre,  as  yours  did  you,  and  then  as  carefully 
lifted  my  mind  up  and  enabled  me  to  see  the  good          |j 
and  evil  so  intimately  blended,  as  they  doubtless          J 
are.     You  have  been  often,  you  say  ?" 

"  Yes ;  that  is,  a  half  a  dozen  times,  perhaps." 

"  Did  you  see  Ellsler  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  think  you  would  have  been  delighted  with 
Her  dancing.  It  was,  truly,  the  poetry  of  motion.1' 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  see  her." 

"Why?"  ' 


TRUE  MAIDEN   DELICACY.  53 

a  I  have  witnessed  stage  dancing." 

"Who  did  you  see?" 

"  Celeste." 

"  Ah !  I  wanted  to  see  her  badly ;  but  no  one 
invited  me  to  go.  How  did  you  like  her  ?" 

"  There  was  a  charming  grace  and  ease  in  all 
her  motions ;  and  some  of  her  pantomimic  per 
formances  were  admirable.  But  my  cheek  burned 
the  whole  time.  Could  a  modest  woman  expose 
her  person  as  she  did?  No!  nor  could  a  truly 
modest  woman  look  upon  such  an  exposure  with 
out  a  feeling  of  deep  shame  and  humiliation." 

"  But  crowds  of  the  most  respectable  women  went 
to  see  her,  night  after  night.  She  could  not  have 
exposed  her  person  more  than  Fanny  Ellsler  did ; 

and  yet  I  saw  present,  Mrs.  L ,  and  Miss 

T ,  and  Mrs.  S ,  and  dozens  of  virtuous 

women,  and  no  cheek  was  covered  with  blushes 
of  shame.     Indeed,  every  one  was  charmed  with          ; 
the  creature's  airy  and  sylph-like  motions.     No          > 
one  thought  of  the  exposure  you  allude  to."  ,l 

"  Didn't  you  think  of  it?" 

"  Yes ;  perhaps  I  did." 

"  And  so  did  others.  Would  you  be  willing  to 
expose  yourself,  as  she  did,  in  a  drawing-room 
filled  with  gentlemen  and  ladies  v* 

«No." 
5* 


THE    MAIDEN. 


"Why?" 

"  I  shouldn't  be  willing  to  exhibit  myself  undei 


any  circumstances."  j 


"Suppose  your  friend  Mary  Gaston  were  to 
dress  herself  m  short  clothes,  and  flourish  about  in 
a  company  of  men  and  women,  after  the  fashion  of 
Fanny  Ellsler,  would  you  approve  of  it  ?  Wouldn't 
you  blush  with  shame  ?M 

"  I  think  I  should." 

"  Is  the  fact  of  the  exposure  any  different  be- 
rause  it  is  made  under  the  different  circumstances 
now  presented"?  I  think  you  will  not  say  so. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  way  in  which  stage  dancing 


is  now  conducted,  is  but  a  tribute  to  an  impure         ^ 


and  perverted  taste ;  and  no  woman,  in  my  opin 
ion,  can  look  upon  it  with  pleasure,  without  part 
ing  with  a  portion  of  woman's  purest  and  most 
holy  feelings."  <| 

"  If  you  were  to  say  so  to  some  persons  that  1 
know,  you  would  offend  them,"  Florence  said,  in 
a  more  subdued  tone  than  any  in  which  she  had 
yet  spoken. 

"  I  could  not  help  that.  I  believe  all  I  say, 
from  my  heart." 


5  CHAPTER  V. 

f;  A     DANGEROUS     CHARACTER. 

HERBERT  GARDINER,  notwithstanding  the  light 
£        manner  in  which  he  had  permitted  himself  to 
speak  of  Anna  Lee,  among  his  convivial  friends, 
felt  strongly  attracted  towards  her.     As  has  been  s 

?.         seen,  he  could  not  hide  the  disappointment  he  felt 
J         at  her  refusal  to  go  to  Mrs  Leslie's  party.     He  ^ 

believed  the  reason  she  gav*  to  be  the  true  one,  j 

but  considered  it  altogether  insufficient. 
\  "If  she  cared  as  much  about  my  company  as  I 

do  about  hers,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  in 
half  ill-humour  away,  "  she  would  have  gone  if 
all  the  family  had  been  sick.     What  do  I  care  for 
this  party  if  she  is  away  ?     Not  that !" 
And  he  snapped  his  fingers  disdainfully. 
"But  I  shall  have  to  go,  I  suppose,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  appearances;  though  I  shall  soon 
make  myself  scarce.     Confound  the  girl's  mother ! 
What  business  had  she  to  get  sick  just  at  this  mo 
ment  ?' 

With  such  thoughts,  the  young  man  slowly 

155) 

I  i 


A^v-«-r\/-iMf-w-., 


56  THE  MAIDEN. 

pursued  his  way  towards  Mrs.  Leslie's  dwelling. 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  a  widow  lady,  with  one  son  and  a 
daughter,  who  occupied  a  kind  of  middle  ground 
between  the  highest  and  second  class.     Her  hus 
band,  who  had  been  dead  some  years,  belonged  to 
one  of  the  best  families  in  the  state.     From  causes 
not  necessary  to  mention  here,  he  lost  a  large  por 
tion  of  his  property ;  and  when  he  died,  left  his 
family  only  in  moderate  circumstances,  although 
by  no  means  poor.     Compelled  to  give  up  to  a         |> 
great  extent,  the  style  in  which  she  had  lived, 
Mrs.  Leslie  yet  retained  all  of  her  former  associa-         v 
tions.     Gardiner  was  intimate  with  her  son ;  and,         '^ 
therefore,  often  visited  in  the  family.  ;> 

Mr.  Lee  had  lived  neighbour  for  some  time  to 
Mrs.  Leslie,  and  owing  to  this  circumstance,  his 
wife  and  daughter  became  acquaintances  of  the 
latter.  Pleased  with  Anna's  beauty,  intelligence, 
and  charming  manners,  Mrs.  Leslie  introduced  her 
into  company  at  her  house,  and  this  brought  her 
into  a  different  circle  from  the  one  she  had  been 
used  to  moving  in.  Here  she  first  met  Florence 
Armitage,  with  whose  opinions  and  conduct  the 
reader  has  already  been  made  acquainted;  and 
here  she  also  first  met  Herbert  Gardiner,  who  had 
been  struck  with  her  appearance  on  the  street. 
The  father  of  Miss  Armitage  was  in  better  circum- 


A   DANGEROUS    CHARACTER.  57 

stances  than  Mr.  Lee,  although  his  position  in 
society  was  no  higher.  Gardiner's  station  has 
already  been  mentioned. 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  one  of  that  dangerous  class  of 
persons  known  as  match-makers.  She  had  made 
some  efforts  to  bring  about  an  arrangement  oe- 
tween  Gardiner  and  her  own  daughter ;  but  that 
was  set  at  rest  by  the  announcement  of  Emma 
Leslie,  that  she  had  already  engaged  herself  to  an 
individual,  to  whom  the  mother  did  not  feel  in 
clined  to  make  any  serious  objection.  Having, 
therefore,  no  views  of  her  own  in  regard  to  the 
young  man,  she,  very  naturally,  following  the 
bent  of  her  inclinations,  looked  about  to  see  who 
would  suit  him.  The  evident  impression  made 
upon  his  mind  on  meeting  Anna  Lee,  determined 
her  course  of  action.  The  young  man  was  half 
j>  in  love,  she  saw,  and  also  perceived  that  Anna 
was  not  displeased  with  his  attentions. 

"  The  very  thing,"  murmured  Mrs.  Leslie,  with 
an  inward  glow  of  delight.  "  They  will  make  a 
charming  couple.  She  is  worthy  of  just  such  a 
match,  and  it  shall  be  made  for  her." 

What  Mrs.  Leslie  considered  a  "  good  match," 
regarded  external  circumstances  alone.  Of  the 
moral  fitness  of  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
for  becoming  married  partners,  she  never  thought 


58  THE    MAIDEN. 

for  a  moment.  It  was  oeyond  the  circle  of  her 
ideas.  To  Gardiner,  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could 
g-et  his  ear  after  his  first  meeting  with  Anna, 

"  She 's  just  the  one  for  you,  Herbert." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  returned  the  young  man, 
smiling. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  am  really  in  earnest.  I  wonder 
T  never  thought  of  her  for  you  before." 

"It  is  strange,  certainly.  How  much  obliged 
I  am  to  my  friend  Mrs.  Leslie  for  being  so 
thoughtful  for  me.  And  you  really  think  this 
/oung  lady  just  the  thing  ?" 

"  I  do,  seriously." 

"  She  is  certainly  a  sweet  girl." 

"  You  might  say  so,  if  you  knew  her  as  well  ai 
r  do.  Her  mind  is  as  sweet  as  her  face." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  her  ?" 

"  For  some  months." 

"  Tell  me  who  she  is,  precisely  ?" 

"  The  daughter  of  John  Lee,  President  of 

Insurance  Company." 

"  Ah !  I  know  him  well  enough ;  and  a  very 

clever  man  he  is.     But  then,  Mrs.  Leslie,  I  cant 

make  iove  to  the  daughter  of  the  President  of  an 

Insurance  Company.     My  old  people  would  never 

•          hear  to  it." 

"Tut,  my  boy!     If  you  can  really  love  her, 


L 


A   DANGEROUS    CHARACTER.  5,9 

5  pick  her  out  and  elevate  her  to  your  own  station. 
My  word  for  it  she  will  grace  any  position.  As 
to  your  father  and  mother,  any  mere  objection 
arising  from  pride  or  prejudice  will  soon  give 
wiy :  and  then  they  will  thank  you  for  choosing  I 
one  whom  they  cannot  but  love."  ^ 

"  There  is  something  in  that ;  but  I  must  see 
her  a  few  times  more.  I  have  often  met  her  in 
the  street,  and  been  struck  with  her  appearance ; 
in  fact,  I  have  been  trying  for  the  last  three 
months  to  find  out  who  she  was." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  I  am  glad  of  that.    Depend  upon 
!»         it,  you  were  cut  out  for  each  other." 
!>  In  this  way,  Mrs.  Leslie  managed  to  fan  into  a 

flame  the  prepossessions  which  Gardiner  had  felt 
in  favour  of  Miss  Lee.  To  Anna,  she  broached 
the  matter  with  more  caution ;  for  she  understood 
her  character  very  well.  At  first  the  maiden 
seemed  to  shrink  in  displeasure  from  anything 
like  a  connexion  of  her  name  with  that  of  the 
young  man.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  soon  saw  that  what 
she  had  said,  was  working  its  way  into  her  heart. 
When  next  Anna  met  Gardiner,  her  eyes 
drooped  beneath  his  earnest  gaze.  Mrs.  Leslie 
gaw  this,  and  her  lips  closed  in  a  quiet  smile  of 
•eif'«atisfaction. 


..-^/^^•^/O 


60  THE  MAIDEN. 

"That  matter  is  certain,"  she  said  to  huself, 
j>          with  exultation. 

;>  In  all  this,  the  mistaken  woman  imagined  her 

self  actuated  by  the  best  of  motives.  She  was 
sure  that  Anna  was  worthy  the  hand  of  Gardiner ; 
and  she  believed  that,  as  the  bride  of  one  in  his 
station,  she  could  not  but  be  happy.  .  She  knew 
nothing  about  the  real  moral  qualities  of  the  young 
man ;  indeed  she  never  once  thought  about  them.  ;> 
All  was  right,  in  that  respect,  of  course.  s 

"  Where  is  Miss  Lee  ?"  she  asked  of  Gardiner, 
on  the  night  of  the  party  at  her  house,  which  had         i 
J          been  given  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  certain 
young  persons  together,  and  giving  them  a  chance. 
j  .       "I  thought  you  were  to  have  called  for  her?" 

"And  so  I  did.      But   she  wouldn't   come."         < 
The  young  man  spoke  as  if  a  good  deal  disturbed 

"  Wouldn't  come  ?     From  what  reason "?" 

"She  made  an  excuse  that  her  mother  was 
sick." 

"The  exact  truth,  if  Anna  said  so." 

"  No  doubt  she  was  a  little  indisposed.  But  I 
don't  believe  she  was  so  sick  but  that  Anna  could 
have  left  her  easily  enough.  In  fact,  I  know  this 
to  be  the  case,  from  the  very  manner  in  which 
she  spoke  of  her  mother's  indisposition." 

"You   come   to   conclusions   too   hastily,  my 


'•\y\yv\/"-/^-/j 

A   DANGEROUS    CHARACTER.  61 

young  friend,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie.  "If  Anna 
told  you  that  she  could  not  go  out  on  account  of 
her  mother's  indisposition,  she  told  you  only  the 
truth.  That  was  her  reason,  and  none  other; 
depend  upon  it.  I  know  her  well ;  and  know,  " 
that  if  she  had  not  wanted  to  come,  she  would 
have  told  you  so,  without  the  slightest  hesitation 
Anna.  Lee  has  a  noble  love  of  truth." 

"Perhaps  so,"  and  Gardiner  moved  his  head 
incredulously. . 

"I  know  that  she  has,  Herbert.  And  you 
must  believe  me  in  this." 

"  If  I  can." 

"  You  are  a  weak  and  foolish  young  man.  Faint 
heart  never  won  fair  lady.  If  you  give  up  so 
easily,  you  are  not  worthy  the  hand  of  so  sweet  a 
girl  as  Anna  Lee,  who  has  not  her  equal  in  this 
city.  I  must  find  some  one  else  to  carry  off  the 
prize." 

"  As  you  please,"  coolly  replied  Gardiner. 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  not  long  have  her  upon 
my  hands.  There  is  a  quiet- looking  young  man 
whom  you  have  sometimes  seen  at  my  house, 
named  Hartley.  He  took  a  fancy  to  Florence 
Armitage,  some  time  ago,  but  it  did  not  last  long. 
He  gradually  moved  himself  off  from  her.  Why, 
I  have  never  learned,  though  I  sounded  him  mor« 
6 


THE    MAIDEN. 

than  once  on 'the  subject.  Well,  this  ysung  man 
has  had  his  eye  upon  Anna  ever  since  his  coldness 
towards  Florence  commenced.  So  far,  he  has  con 
tented  himself  with  observing  her,  so  to  speak, 
from  a  distance.  But  I  can  see  his  eye  begin  to 
brighten  up,  now,  at  her  name ;  and  he  has  already 
asked  me  several  questions  about  her." 

"Hartley?     Who  is  he?" 
£  "  Don't  you  remember  to  have  met  him  v> 

"No." 

£  "  Let  me  see  if  he  is  here.     Yes,  there  he  sits 

near  the  window,  talking  to  Caroline  Etheridge." 

"  Not  that  smoothed-faced  genius  ?" 

"  He  hasn't  your  wealth  of  whiskers,  certainly." 
>  "  He  beginning  to  think  of  Anna  Lee  !  Ha !  ha  ' " 

"  It  is  true,  upon  my  word." 

Gardiner  gave  his  head  an  indifferent  toss,  say 
ing,  as  he  did  so,  — 

"  If  he  can  win  her,  let  him  wear  her." 

"A  woman's  heart,  Herbert,"  replied  Mrs. 
Leslie,  "  is  a  strange  substance.  It  takes  impres 
sions  easily,  but  when  they  are  once  made,  itr  is 
impossible  to  efface  them.  I  should  be  sorry 
indeed  that  any  hand  should  first  impress  the 
heart  of  Anna  Lee  but  yours.  See,  yourself,  that 
this  does  not  take  place." 

Their  conversation  had  already  been  too  much 


A   DANGEROUS    CHARACTER.  63 

prolonged  under  the  circumstances,  and  Mrs. 
Leslie  moved  from  the  young  man's  side,  to 
mingle  more  generally  with  her  company.  When 
left  alone,  Gardiner's  eye  turned  instinctively 
towards  Hartley. 

"  Who  is  the  young  man  you  spoke  to  me  about 
a  little  whHe  ago  ?"  he  said,  when  next  he  founa          «j 
himself  at  the  side  of  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  I  believe  he  is   clerk  or  junior  partner  m  a          £ 
Market  Street  house."  \ 

"  Humph !"  And  Gardiner  turned  away  with  a 
manner  that  said — "  is  that  all  ?" 

The  fact  that  Anna  did  not  come,  made  the 
young  man  altogether  indifferent  to  the  pleasures 
of  society.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  a  bevy  ol 
young  girls,  with  bright  eyes,  and  witching 
smiles,  sought  to  entrap  his  heart.  He  scarcely 
saw  them.  Even  Florence  Armitage*  who  would 
have  liked  to  make  an  impression  on  him,  spite  of 
her  friendship  for  Anna,  could  not  get  him  to  her 
side. 

In  about  an  hour,  the  young  man  quietly  stolr 
away,  and  went  to  the  theatre.  It  was  past  twi. 
o'clock  when  he  came  home,  more  fully  und^j 
the  influence  of  wii.e  than  he  had  been  for  months 
But  neither  his  father  nor  mother  knew  of  this 
Their  senses  were  locked  in  slumber,  hours  before 
he  sought  his  pillow. 


CHAPTER  VL 

v  <E  MAIDEN'S  FIRST  STRONG  TRIAL 

Ir  was  not  long  before  Mrs.  Leslie  managed  to 
brag  Anna  and  Mr.  Gardiner  together  at  her 
house.  This  she  did  adroitly.  Neither  of  the 
parties  suspected  her  agency  in  the  matter. 

Since  their  last  meeting,  Anna  had  examined 
her  own  heart  closely ;  she  had  also  thought  much 
about  Gardiner,  and  endeavoured  to  analyze  his 

j  character  as  accurately  as  possible.  The  result 
was,  a  distinct  conviction  that,  although  she  could 
not  but  feel  an  interest  in  him,  he  was  not  one 
whose  moral  feelings  could  harmonize  with  her 
own.  The  glimpse  she  had  obtained  of  his  cha 
racter,  when  she  told  him  that  she  must  remain 
at  home  on  account  of  her  mother's  illness,  was 
enough  to  cause  her  to  shrink  from  him. 

in  meeting  him  again,  she  could  not  but  mani 
fest  the  reserve  and  coldness  she  felt.  This  dis 
turbed  him ;  and  his  disturbed  feelings  reacted  on 
hers,  and  thus  drove  them  further  asunder.  Mr& 

<J          Leslie  saw  all  this,  and  tried  hard  to  remove  it 

>  CM) 


THE    FIRST    STRONG    TRIAL.  65 

but  without  success.  When  Anna  and  the  young 
man  parted  that  night,  both  felt  unhappy. 

From  this  time,  Gardiner,  who  was  piqued  at 
Anna's  coldness,  was  resolved  to  win  her.  The 
very  indifference  she  manifested,  only  inflamed  < 

the  passion  he  felt.  Mrs.  Leslie  became  his  confi 
dent  and  adviser  in  the  matter,  and  through  her 
he  gained  a  knowledge  of  all  her  movements ;  but  ij 

not  of  all  her  feelings,  for  these  were  not  commu 
nicated  freely  to  the  woman  who  professed  for  her 
so  warm  a  friendship. 

Thus  matters  went  on  for  several  months,  during 
which  time  Gardiner  called  frequently  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Lee  to  see  his  daughter,  and  managed  often 
to  throw  himself  into  his  company,  in  a  business 
way.  In  every  casual  or  prolonged  interview 
with  Mr.  Lee,  Gardiner  was  exceedingly  polite 
and  deferential.  The  effect  of  all  this  upon  the 
father's  mind  was  favourable. 

As  for  Anna,  the  oftener  she  met  with  the 
i>         young  man,  the  stronger  was  the  sphere  of  repul 
sion  that  surrounded  him.     She  could  not  tell 
why ;  but  her  heart  shrunk  from  him  more  and 
more,  daily.     Spite  of  all  she  could  do,  she  could 
not  forget  his  manner,  nor  the  expression  of  his 
face,  on  the  evening  she  had  declined  going  with 
6* 


66  THE   MAIDEN. 

him  to  Mrs.  Leslie's,  on  the  plea  of  duty  to  her 
sick  mother. 

One  evening  she  was  sitting  at  her  piano,  and 
playing  over  for  her  own  ear  some  favourite  piece, 
when  a  domestic  came  in,  and  said  that  her  mothsr,         | 
who  was  alone  in  her  room,  wished  to  see  her. 

Anna  went  up,  as  desired. 

"  Sit  down,  dear ;  I  have  something  I  wish  tc 
say  to  you." 

The  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Lee  spoke,  caused 
the  heart  of  Anna  to  sink  heavily.  There  was 
something  strange  and  ominous  in  it.  She  dropped 
into  a  chair  by  her  mother's  side,  and  looked  ear 
nestly  in  her  face.  Something  half  whispered  to 
her  the  nature  of  what  she  was  to  hear. 

"Your  father,  Anna,  who  went  out  a  little 
while  ago,  wishes  me  to  say  to  you,"  began  the 
mother,  in  a  voice  that  was  neither  clear  nor  com-        1 
posed,  "  that  Mr.  Herbert  Gardiner  has  asked  of         I 
him  the  privilege  of  claiming,  with  your  consent,         J 
your  hand  in  marriage."  £ 

The  maiden  rose  quickly  to  her  feet,  and  stood 
with  a  quivering  lip  before  her  mother. 

*'  You  have  no  doubt  expected  as  much,  Anna," 
added  Mrs.  Lee,  after  a  pause.  "  Mr.  Gardiner 
has  visited  you  frequently  of  late." 

Anna  tried  hard  to  speak,  but  it  was  nearly  a 


THE    FIRbT    STRONG    TRIAL.  67 

minute  before  she  could  articulate.  At  length  she 
said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  the  tears  starting  from 
her  eyes  as  she  spoke  — 

"Mother — dear  mother!  Don't  speak  to  me 
of  that.  I  love  you  too  well  to  wish  to  part  from 
vou." 

And  she  sunk  by  her  mother's  side,  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  lap.  Mrs.  Lee  was  deeply  moved. 
She  placed  one  hand  tenderly  upon  Anna's  head, 
and,  with  the  other,  clasped  the  hand  of  her  child 
that  had  fallen  upon  her  bosom.  For  some  time 
all  was  still.  Then  Mrs.  Lee  endeavoured  to 
raise  Anna  from  her  recumbent  position;  with 
some  difficulty  she  succeeded  in  doing  so,  and 
placing  her  in  a  chair  by  her  side.  But  the  face 
of  the  maiden  remained  concealed  in  her  hands. 

"Anna,  dear,"  again  began  the  mother,  "I 
respond  with  deep  tenderness  to  the  love  you  ex 
press.  It  will  be  a  sad  day  for  me,  when  I  am 
called  upon  to  give  you  up.  But  I  cannot  hide 
from  myself  the  fact  that  I  shall  have  to  meet  and 
go  through  the  trial,  sooner  or  later.  I  will  not 
shrink  from  it,  even  if  it  should  be  to-morrow,  if 
your  best  interests  were  concerned." 

There  was  a  pause,  but  no  reply.  Mrs.  Lee 
resumed. 

"  Let  your  mother  speak  to  you  freely     She 


68  T1IE    MAIDEN. 

'(> 

loved  jwu  ocot.     Heretofore,  she  has  always  com 
municated  with  you  unreservedly.     Let  her  do  so 
now.     Be  calm.     Be  a  woman.     Meet  this  sub»          | 
ject,  the  most  important  in  your  life,  with  unruffled 
'  feelings.     As  I  before  said,  Mr.  Gardiner  has  de-          ;• 

clared  to  your  father  that  he  wishes  to  address  you 
with  views  of  marriage.     He,  in  fact,  through 
your  father,  offers  you  his  hand.     Do  you  accept          jj 
it1?" 

There  was  a  breathless  silence.  ;• 

"  Speak,  my  child !     What  is  your  decision?" 

"If  left  to  my  decision,  mother,  it  is  soon 
made,"  was  the  murmured  reply. 

"  It  rests  with  you,  of  course." 

A  quick  shudder  passed  through  the  maiden's         <! 
frame,  which  was  distinctly  felt   by  Mrs.  Lee. 
Then  she  said  in  a  firm  voice, — 

"I  decline  his  offer!" 

"  Anna !"  and  Mrs.  Lee  half  started  to  her  feet 
in  surprize.  < 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  I  was  to  decide  ?"  j 

"True.  But  how  can  you  decide  against  Aim, 
of  all  others?" 

"Because,  of  all  others,  I  least  regard  him 
The  oftener  I  see  him,  the  more  strongly  I  a» 
repulsed  by  him." 

«  Whv  ?" 


_- 

THE   FIRST    STRONG    TRIAn.  63 

"I  cannot  tell." 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  the 
toother's  mind  gradually  became  clear,  and  its 
perceptions  distinct.  Both  herself  and  husband 
had  been  greatly  pleased  at  the  offer  of  Gardiner, 

$  and  neither  of  them  had  entertained  the  most 
remote  idea  that  Anna  would  have  declined  it. 
In  doing  so  as  promptly  as  she  did,  Mrs.  Lee  was 
thrown  back  upon  herself,  disappointed  and  con 
founded.  But  her  good  sense,  true  perceptions, 
and  genuine  affection  for  her  child,  restored,  gra- 

<;         dually,  her  mind's  true  tone  and  balance. 

rj  "  It  is  for  you,  and  you  alone,  Anna,"  she  at 

length  said,  in  a  serious,  yet   affectionate  voice, 


settle  the  question,     But  in  making  it,  have  you' 


"to  decide  this  marter,  and  your  decision  must 


well  considered  ?" 


"Mother,  I  have.     Though  too  young  to  be 
called  upon  to  decide  a  matter  of  so  much  import- 

£  ance,  I  have  yet  been  compelled  to  do  it  ;  and  it 
has  not  been  without  many  a  hard  struggle,  and 

5  many  an  earnest  prayer  for  guiding  light  to  Him 
whose  wisdom  is  a  lamp  to  our  feet.  I  cannot 
say  I  have  not  been  tempted  strongly  to  make  the 
decision  in  his  favour." 

"  You  knew,  then,  of  his  intended  proposition 

!l        to  your  father  ?" 


70  THE    MAIDEN. 

j;  "  No.     But  I  heard  from  a  mutual  friend,  that 

he  was  visiting  me  with   serious  intentions  of 

j>  marriage,  if  I  would  consent,  which  seemed  to  be 

thought  a  matter  of  course.  At  that  time  I 
weighed  the  matter  well,  and  shortly  afterwards 

'f  decided  my  course.     Nothing  has  since  occurred 

to  make  me  waver,  but  rather  to  confirm  my  reso- 

;>  lution.     The  oftener  I  meet  him,  the  more  repul 

sive  does  he  seem  to  me.     Sometimes  I  have  a         ;> 
feeling  of  suffocation  when  in  his  company.   And         I 
never  do  I  come  into  his  presence,  without  send 
ing  up  an  almost  involuntary  prayer,  that  the  Lord 
would  encompass  me  with  a  band  of  angels."  ^ 

Mrs.  Lee  drew  her  arm  tightly  around  her        s 

•'f          child.     She  was  a  woman  with  a  true  heart,  and 

*  enlightened  perceptions,  and  was,  therefore,  satis-         < 
fied  that  Anna  was  not  governed  by  any  childish        | 
impulse.   That  the  mind  of  her  daughter  was  pure 
as  virgin  innocence  itself,  she  knew;  and  she  also       ,| 
knew,  that  the   internal   repulsion  felt   towards         \ 

f  Gardiner,  must  arise  from  the  opposition  of  the 

spheres  of  their  moral  qualities,  felt  as  their 
thoughts  were  directed  towards  each  other — for 
mutual  thought  makes  mental  presence,  as  per 
fectly  as  bodily  proximity  makes  physical  pre- 
lence.  Feeling  thus,  not  the  honour  nor  wealth 


THE  FIRST  STRONG  TRJAL. 


J  of  the  world  could  have  tempted  Mrs.  Lee  to 
sacrifice  her  child. 

In  about  an  hour,  Mr.  Lee  was  heard  coming  in 
at  the  street  door ;  and  Anna,  first  kissing  her 
mother  tenderly,  glided  up  to  her  own  chamber. 
Closing  the  door  after  her,  she  sunk  down  by  her 
bed-side  upon  her  knees,  and  remained  in  that 
attitude  for  nearly  half  an  hour.  When  she 
arose,  her  face  was  very  pale,  but  elevated  in  ex- 

ff  pression,  and  beautiful  to  look  upon.  Seating 
herself  by  the  window,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
pure  sky,  jewelled  with  its  myriad  stars,  and 
bathed  in  the  soft  moonlight.  There  was  about 
her  feelings  a  holy  tranquillity — a  deep  con 
sciousness  of  having  acted  right  in  a  matter  in 
volving  most  vital  consequences.  The  scene  ao 
corded  with  her  feelings.  Her  state,  of  mind  was 
such,  that  nature  could  speak  to  hex  heart  in  its 
low,  but  earnest  voice,  a  language  free  from 
human  perverted  passion.  She  listened  to  this 
voice.  Her  heart  felt  its  breathings,  and  an 
swered  to  them  as  the  murmuring  seolean  answers 
to  the  gentle  breeze  that  seeks  caressingly  its 
yielding  strings. 

"  This  is  my  first  strong  trial :"  thus  she  thought 
after  a  time — "the  first  temptation  my  woman's 
heart  has  had  to  endure.  How  easily  might  I 
hare  fallen  into  this  snare,  but  for  the  right  in- 


£  72  THE    MAIDEN. 

structions,  and  the  protecting  sphere  of  a  true- 
minded  mother.  She  gave  me  right  principles  by 
which  to  estimate  all  things  around  me,  and 

>  guided  my  opening  affections  to  things  pure  and 

elevated.     Had  I  not  been  blessed  with  such  a 

'/  mother  —  so  wise,  so  thoughtful,  so  judicious — 

my  weak  heart  might  have  been  dazzled  by  a  bril 
liant  offer,  and  I  led  to  accept  it,  to  the  destruction 
of  all  my  best  hopes  here,  and  perhaps  hereafter." 
Anna  slightly  shuddered  as  this  idea  came 
vividly  before  her  mind. 

Some  readers  may  think,  that  the  little  know 
ledge  Anna  had  of  the  character  of  Gardiner,  was 
not  enough  to  cause  her  to  feel,  in  rejecting  his 
suit,  so  strongly  as  here  represented.  Let  such  a 
one  know,  that  a  maiden  with  moral  feelings 
as  pure  and  unselfish  as  were  those  of  Anna  Lee, 
needs  but  to  have  a  corner  of  the  veil  lifted,  in 
order  to  enable  her  to  determine  the  quality  of  a 
lover's  mind.  As  the  quality  of  the  whole  ocean 
may  be  determined  by  that  of  a  single  drop,  so 
may  she,  by  a  single  clearly-seen  phase  of  hit 
moral  character,  determine  its  whole  character. 
And  Anna  Lee  did  so.  Not  fully,  at  first,  but 
undoubtingly ;  when,  added  to  her  rational  convic 
tions,  came  an  instinctive  feeling  of  repulsion 
towards  him,  as  one  who  was  impure,  and  deeply 
selfish. 


CHAPTEH  VH. 

TRIED     AND     PROVED. 


J  ANN  A  shrunk  from  meeting  her  parent,  on  the 

next  morning.  What  would  be  her  father's  viewi 
of  the  course  she  had  taken,  she  could  not  tell. 
She  believed  that  he  would  not  for  a  moment  hesi 
tate  to  approve  her  declaration;  and  yet  doubt 
would  cross  her  mind,  and  disturb  her  young  heart 
to  its  very  centre. 

When  the  breakfast  beH  rung,  she  descended 
from  her  chamber.     Her  first  glance  was  at  her 
£         mother's  face.     The  expression  of  that  told  her 
\         instantly,  that  all  was  not  right.     She  did  not  look 
;>         at  her  father  for  some  time  after.    At  length  her 
eyes  sought^  his  countenance ;  it  was  thoughtful, 
and  somewhat  stern.     What  could  it  mean  ?     Did 
'?          he  wish  her  to  marry  a  man  against  whom  her 
whole  heart  revolted  ?    It   could  not  be !     Yet 
why  this  change  ? 

So  deeply  did  the  unhappiness  evidently  felt 
by  her  mother,  and  the  stern  look  of  her  father, 
effect  Anna,  that  she  found  it  impossible  to  swal 
low  her  food,  and  soon  retired  from  the  table. 
7  (73) 


74>  THE   MAIDEN. 

Before  Mr.  Lee  left  the  house,  he  took  his  wife 
aside,  and  said,  in  a  serious  voice  — 

"  Anna :  you  must  not  let  this  matter  go  to  rest 
at  once.  An  offer  of  marriage,  such  as  this,  can 
never  be  had  again  for  our  daughter.  Think! 
Herbert  Gardiner  is  the  only  son  of  one  of  our 
wealthiest  and  most  esteemed  citizens.  The  cha 
racter  of  the  family  is  untainted,  and  that  of  the 
young  man,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  unex 
ceptionable.  What  folly,  then,  for  our  child  to 
refuse  such  an  offer  on  the  mere  pretence  of  a 
repulsion  of  spheres.  For  that,  if  I  understand  it, 
is  the  only  objection  urged." 

"  Do  you  not  believe,  husband,"  returned  Mrs. 
Lee,  in  a  voice  almost  sad,  "  in  the  doctrine,  that 
around  every  individual  is  a  sphere  of  his  moral 
qualities,  as  perceptible  to  the  moral  sense  of 
another  in  whom  that  sense  has  not  become  obtuse, 
as  is  the  sphere  of  the  quality  of  a  rose,  in  it* 
odor,  around  the  rose,  and  perceptible  to  the 
physical  sense  ?" 

"  That  doctrine  is  no  doubt  true,  but — n 

"And  do  you  not  believe,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Lee,   "that  our  Anna's  moral  sense  is  unper 
rerted  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"Is  it  not  well,  then,  to  regard  its  response 


TRIED    A.ND    PROVED. 


7D 


BS  readily  as  you  would  regard  the  response  of 
your  tongue,  when  brought  in  contact  with  a  dele 
terious  or  offensive  substance  1" 

"  True  in  the  abstract,"  replied  Mr.  Lee, 
'.vhose  usually  well  balanced  mind  had  been 
thrown  from  its  just  equipoise  by  the  nattering 
and  externally  advantageous  offer  made  to  his  child. 
— "  But  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  is  true  in  its  prac 
tical  applications  now." 

"  I  believe  that  it  is,"  Mrs.  Lee  firmly  replied. 
"And,  as  the  mother  of  Anna,  I  would  rather 
see  her  laid,  in  her  maiden  sweetness,  in  the 
grave,  than  become  the  wife  of  a  man  for  whom 
she  has  so  strong  a  feeling  of  repulsion  as  that 
entertained  towards  Gardiner, — no  matter  what 
external  advantages  might  be  offered.  External 
advantages !  What  are  these,  my  dear  husband ' 
when  set  against  internal  discordance?  Nothing; 
Nothing !  Dust  in  the  balance !" 

Mr.  Lee  still  looked  grave.  The  offer  of  Gardi 
ner  had  nattered  a  certain  weakness  in  his  cha 
racter,  and  obscured  the  good  sense  for  which  he 
was  distinguished.  Mrs.  Lee  had  also  felt  greatly 
pleased.  But  her  interview  with  Anna  had  made 
all  right  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

The  conversation  which  passed  between  the 
father  and  mother  on  the  preceding  evening,  was, 


5 


76  THE    MAIDEN. 

perhaps,  the  most  unpleasant  ever  held  by  them. 
Mr.  Lee  would  not  hear  to  Anna's  objection,  and 
Mrs.  Lee  was  equally  firm  in  sustaining  her  daugh 
ter  in  the  position  she  had  taken.  The  discussion 
was  kept  up  for  a  long  time,  and  ceased  at  last, 
not  in  the  settlement  of  the  difference,  but  in  the  . 
unsatisfied  and  unhappy  silence  of  both  parties. 
The  morning,  it  has  been  seen,  presented  no  better 
aspect  to  the  affair. 

Still  unreconciled  to  his  daughter's  objection  to 
Gardiner,  Mr.  Lee  left  home,  and  went  to  his 
office.  Nothing  more  passed  between  Anna  and 
her  mother  on  the  subject  during  the  morning. 
Both  avoided  speaking  about  it.  At  dinner  time, 
Mr.  Lee  was  grave  and  silent.  His  manner  affected  \ 
Anna  so  painfully,  that  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  table.  As  she  did  so,  her  father  glanced  at  her, 
and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  not  only  full  of  tears, 
but  that  large  drops  were  falling  over  her  cheeks. 

Anxiously  did  Anna  wait  for  his  return  at  even 
ing,  in  order,  once  more,  to  look  into  his  face,  m 
the  hope  that  its  coldness  would  have  passed 
away.  But  the  more  Mr.  Lee  thought  about  the 
matter,  the  more  he  was  dissatisfied.  There  was, 
therefore,  no  light  in  his  countenance  for  his 
daughter's  eye.  There  still  rested  a  heavy  cloud 
upon  his  brow.  This  continued  for  three  days  j  at 


*^-*s^r^-~r~ 


TRIED  AMD  PROVED  77 

\  the  end  of  which  period,  he  was  to  give  an  answer 
to  the  application  made  by  Gardiner.  The  nearer 

£  the  time  approached  for  meeting  the  young  man, 
the  more  unhappy  did  Mr.  Lee  appear  in  the  pre 
sence  of  his  family.  On  the  morning  of  the  day 

$  on  which  a  reply  to  Gardiner's  proposition  was  to 
be  given,  he  seemed  unusually  grave.  Poor  Anna 

^  was  wretched.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  suffered 
so  acutely.  She  loved  her  father  with  the  purest 

£         feelings — with  the  deepest  tenderness ; — there  was 

£  no  sacrifice  that  she  dared  make,  that  would  not 
have  been  made  for  his  sake,  cheerfully.  But 
more  had  been  asked  than  she  could,  in  con 
science,  do.  For,  with  her,  the  marriage  rite  was 
felt  to  be  a  religious  ceremony,  and  the  marriage 
union  one  that  should  be  made  in  the  sight  of 
heaven, —  thus  she  had  been  taught  to  regard 
them  by  her  mother,  who,  since  her  seventeenth 
birthday,  had  sought,  gently  and  almost  uncon 
sciously  to  her  child,  to  lead  her  to  think  of  mar 
riage  as  the  most  holy  act  of  a  woman's  life. 

There  were  times,  it  is  true,  when  she  felt  like 
yielding  to  her  father's  wishes ;  OR,  to  what  she 
aad  the  strongest  reasons  for  believing  were  his 
wishes — of  giving  herself  up,  passively,  if  her 

?         heart  were  crushed  in  doing  so.     But  the  precepts 

of  her  mother  had  been  too  deeply  stored  in  her 
7* 


\  78  THE   MAIDEN. 


mind  She  understood  clearly,  that  in  the  sight 
of  heaven,  she  dared  not  make  such  a  sacrifice. 
That  marriage  was  too  holy  a  thing  to  be  per 
verted. 

Anna  knew  that  on  this  day  an  answer  would 
have  to   be   given   to  Mr.   Gardiner — and  she, 
therefore,  understood  why  her  father  seemed  more 
than  usually  oppressed  in  his  feelings.     After  he         J 
had  gone  out,  she  went  up  to  her  own  room, 
and  there  spent  the  whole  morning  alone.     Anx 
iously  did  she  await  his  return  at  dinner  time.         <J 
As  the  hour  of  his  coming  approached,  the  un-        <; 


happy  girl  became  more  and  more  wretched.  An 
undefined  fear  took  hold  of  her — a  dread  of  some 
impending  evil.  When  the  clock  struck  three, 

;!  and  she  heard,  soon  after,  her  father's  well  known 

footstep  along  the  passage,  and  on  the  stairs,  her 

;!  heart  stood  almost  still.     Mr.  Lee  went  direct  to 

his  wife's  chamber.     Ten  minutes  more  of  anxious 

suspense  passed,  when  Anna  heard  the  ringing  of 

her  mother's  bell.     A  domestic  went  up  to  her 

room.     Then  the  steps  of  the  same  domestic  were 

heard  ascending  to  her  chamber.    The  door  opened. 

"  Your  mother  wishes  to  see  you." 

The  maiden  started,  and  turned  as  pale  as  death. 

j  Dut  she  obeyed  the  summons,  though  with  a  sinking 

heart.    At  her  mother's  door  she  paused  for  nearly 


TRIED   AND    PROVED. 


79 


•  minute,  and  strove,  by  a  powerful  effort,  to  sub 
due  her  agitated  feelings ;  but  she  strove  in  vain. 
When  she  entered,  she  was  hardly  conscious  of 
anything  beyond  a  fear  of  something  undefined. 
But  her  eyes  sought  instantly  her  father's  face. 
A  great  change  had  taken  place.  Instead  of  th 
stern,  cold,  offended  look  that  his  countenance  had 
worn  for  three  days,  it  was  subdued,  and  tender, 
and  full  of  affection.  He  reached  his  hand  towards 
her,  and  she  sprang  into  his  arms,  and  sunk  weep 
ing-  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Dear  father !  you  love  me  still !"  she  at  length 
mrjrmured,  lifting  her  head,  and  looking  him  in 
th^  face. 

"  Love  you,  my  child  ?  I  have  always  loved 
you ;  but  now  more  deeply  than  ever." 

"Then  I  am  happy — happy!"  she  said,  again 
Jetting  her  head  fall  upon  his  breast.  I  want  no 
other  love  but  the  love  that  makes  this  home  so 
sweet.  It  is  the  first  love — -the  best  love — and 
the  most  unselfish  of  all." 

Mr.  Lee  drew  his  arm  tightly  around  his  child, 
as  a  response  to  the  sentiment  she  had  just  uttered. 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "  the  loves  that 
make  our  childhood's  home  happy,  are  the  most 
unselfish.  May  they  be  long  continued  to  us." 

"Amen,"  was  the  solemn  response,  breathed 


80  THE   MAIDEN. 

half  involuntarily,  yet  sweetly,  by  the  maiden,  a*        1< 
she  clasped  tightly  her  father's  hand. 

Mrs.  Lee's  eyes  were  full  of  tears;   but  her 
}  whole  face  was  elevated  and  glad.     She  looked        J 

£  calmly  on  the  scene  passing  before  her,  silently        .$ 

lifting  her  heart  in  thankfulness  for  so  good  a  child. 

"  Will  you  pardon  the  late  strangeness  of  my         > 
manner  towards  you,  Anna?"  Mr.  Lee  said,  after 
a  little  while,  raising  his  daughter  up,  and  looking 
into  her  face. 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,  father,"  she  returned,         ;> 
quickly.      "If  you   love   me  —  if  you   do   not         !> 
blame  me — if  you  will  let  me  still  call  this  my 
home,  and  you  my  best  beloved,  I  ask  no  more.         j 
My  cup  will  be  full ;  full  to  the  brim."  ] 

"  Blame  you,  Anna  ?     No  !    If  there  has  been 
any  blame,  I  must  bear  it.     You  have  been  right. 
Love  you  ?     We  cannot  tell  you  how  much  we         \ 
love  you.     And  may  the  day  be  far  distant  when 
you  shall  go  to  another  home !" 

"  You  have  made  me  happier,  dear  father,  than 
I  have  ever  been,"  Anna  said,  struggling  to  hide 
the   emotion   that  was  swelling    in  her   bosom.         J 
ji  "  Do  not  again  feel  offended  with  me.    You  have         ^ 

taught  me  to  act  fr:>m  a  sense  of  right  in  all 
I  do,  —  you  have  wisely  sought  to  elevate  my 
understanding,  and  have  given  me  principles  by 


TRIED   AND   PROVED.  81 

which  to  determine  all  my  actions.  T^ese  prin 
ciples  I  will  ever  strive  to  make  rules  of  conduct. 
By  them  I  will  seek  to  determine  between  right 
and  wrong,  and  choosing  the  right,  I  will  en 
deavour  to  abide  by  it,  in  all  firmness  and  con 
scientiousness."  \ 

"  Do  so,  my  child,  even  if  your  father,  strange 
as  such  a  thing  may  be,  should  rise  up  in  opposi 
tion.  Obey  him  just  so  far  as  he  wishes  you  to 
to  obey  the  truth  he  has  taught  you,  but  no  fur 
ther.  You  are  now  a  woman,  and  by  your  own  ^ 
acts  you  must  be  justified  or  condemned.  Take  s 

no  step  in  life,  without  a  clear  perception  that  it  J 

is  right.     Seek  aid  and  light  from  all  who  are  J 

wiser  than  yourself,  but  let  their  wisdom  guide 
you,  if  guided  by  others  at  all.   If  you  cannot  see  £ 

with  them,  do  not  act  from  them.     Avoid  this, 
as  you  would  a  great  evil." 

After  a  slight  pause,  Mr.  Lee  added, 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Gardiner  to-day,  and  declined  from          <; 
5         you  his  offer.     Deeply  thankful  am  I  that  you 
had  the  resolution  to  refuse  him.    You  acted  with 
true  wisdom,  and  a  noble  firmness  that  I  shall  <; 

evei  admire.     Of  all  that  occurred,  your  mother 
will  inform  you  at  another  time." 


CHAPTER 

A    DISAPPOINTMENT. 

WHEN  Mr.  Lee  went  to  his  office  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  day  named  as  that  on  which  he  was  to 
give  an  answer  to  Herbert  Gardiner,  he  felt  in  a 
very  uncomfortable  state  of  mind.  The  cause  for 
this  was  two-fold.  First,  he  could  not  help  feel 
ing  a  strong  desire  for  the  proposed  union ;  and 
second,  he  felt  that  the  interview  with  the  young 
man,  would  be  an  embarrassing  one.  But  it  could 
not  be  avoided. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  own  private  room,  about 
eleven  o'clock,  when  Gardiner  came  in,  smiling 
pleasantly,  and  bowing  with  perfect  ease  and  self- 
possession.  But  in  a  few  minutes  his  manner 
changed.  The  disturbed  state  of  Mr.  Lee's  mind 
was  communicated  to  his  own. 

"You  know  the  nature  of  my  business,  Mr. 
Lee,"  he  said,  after  talking  indifferently  for  a 
short  time.  "What  is  the  answer  I  am  to  rw 
ceive  at  your  hands  ?" 

"I  regret  exceedingly,"  returned  Mr.  Lep,  "t« 


A   DISAPPOINT MENT.  83 

be  compelled  to  decline  your  very  flattering  offer ; 
but  my  daughter  is  firm  in  her  opposition  to  our 
wishes  in  the  matter.  We  have — " 

"Your  daughter  objects  ?"  the  young  man  said, 
with  an  instantly  flushed  face,  rising  quickly  to 
hie  feet.  "Humph!" 

There  was  an  air  of  contempt  and  conscious 
superiority  in  the  manner  of  Gardiner^  that 
ieriously  offended  Mr.  Lee. 

"  Yes  sir,"  he  said,  his  own  manner  also  chang 
ing.  "  She  objects,  and  she,  doubtless,  has  good 
reasons  for  it  j  for  she  never  acts  from  prejudice  or 
caprice." 

"Ha!  ha  Don't  she  indeed?"  The  young 
man  had  lost  control  of  himself,  and  spoke  very 
contemptuously.  He  was  quick-tempered,  proud, 
and  could  ill  bear  anything  like  opposition.  The 
unexpected  rejection  of  his  suit  from  one  whose 
social  position  was  below  his,  had  chafed  him 
•everely. 

Mr.  Lee's  eyes  were  fixed  instantly  upon  the 
young  man  with  a  rebuking  look.  This,  while  it 
made  him  conscious  of  the  error  he  was  commit- 
ing,  did  not  tend  to  soothe  the  sudden  irritation 
of  his  mind.  For  nearly  a  minute  he  returned  Mr. 
Lee's  steady  gaze ;  and  then  with  a  muttered  oath, 
he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  from  the  room 


84  THE    MAIDEN. 

The  father  of  Anna  drew  a  long  breath,  as  soon 
as  he  found  himself  alone  —  sat  with  eyes  upon 
the  floor  for  some  time,  and  .hen  got  up,  and 
walked  to  and  fro,  in  a  deeply  abstracted  mood. 
While  doing  so,  one  of  the  Directors  of  the  Com 
pany,  of  which  he  was  the  President,  an  intimate 
friend,  came  in.  He  noticed  that  Lee  was  dis 
turbed,  and  inquired  the  reason ;  when  the  inter 
view  just  had  was  related. 

"The  puppy!"  ejaculated  the  friend.  "An^ 
oe  really  had  the  assurance  to  offer  himself  to  your 
sweet  Anna  ?" 

"  He  offered  himself,"  replied  Mr.  Lee,  "  but 
why  should  that  be  called  assurance." 

"  Humph !     You  certainly  don't  know  him." 

"  I  never  heard  a  breath  against  him,  in  my  life."         ^ 

"I  have  then;  and  words  too.  Why,  this  Her- 
oert  Gardiner,  is  no  more  fit  for  the  husband  of  a 
»>ure-minded  creature  like  Anna,  than  I  am  to 
consort  with  an  angel  of  the  third  heaven !"  £ 

"  You  speak  strongly."  \ 

"Not  more   so  than  I  should  speak.     It  ia          \ 
strange  that  you  have  never  heard  his  character 
I  thought  that  was  notorious." 

"  He.  is  in  business  with  a  very  excellent  young 
man."  <j 

"  Oh  yes ,  his  capital  r^res  that.     But  a  businea 


?  A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  8f> 

connexion  and  a  marriage  are  two  very  different 
things.  I  might  be  willing  to  enter  into  business 
relations  with  a  man,  that  I  should  not  like  to  see 
the  husband  of  my  daughter." 

"Very  true.     But  tell  me  something  specific 

!>         about  Gardiner." 

"  He  is,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  words,  a 

I  man  about  town.  Do  you  understand  what  that 
means  V9 

"  I  do.     But  are  you  certain  ?" 

;!  "  I  know  it  to  be  the  case.     His  associates  are 

j!  often  of  the  vilest  character,  and  his  habits  ex 
ceedingly  irregular.  Depend  upon  it,  he  would 
have  cursed  your  child  in  marrying  her.  From 
all  I  have  seen  and  heard  of  that  young  man,  I 
would  sooner  see  Anna  in  her  grave  than  his 
wife !» 

J  "  Thank  Heaven !     There  is  no  danger  of  such 

a  sacrifice.  But  why  should  he  have  sought  my 
daughter's  hand  ?" 

"It  is  a  tribute  to  her  loveliness.  Even  one 
like  him  could  bow  before  it.  But  the  love  of 
mere  external  grace  and  beauty  by  a  man  without 
principle,,  is  only  of  brief  duration.  These  do  not 
minister  long  to  his  selfishness — and  then  the 
flower  that  charmed  for  a  brief  season  is  thrown 
8 


THE    MAIDEN. 

aside  with  indiiference,  or  trampled  upon  with 
scorn." 

When  Mr.  Lee  returned  home,  his  feelings 
were  widely  different  from  those  with  which  he 
had  left  his  family  in  the  morning.  The  reader 
has  seen  th^  change. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  COLD  AND  CALCULATING  LOVER. 


"An,  William!  is  it  you,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie, 
coming  into  her  parlour.  "  Thomas  only  said  that  a         «; 
gentleman  had  called  to  see  me.     The  stupid  fel 
low  !  I  thought  he  could  recollect  your  face." 

"  And  did !  but,  like  a  great  many  other  gentle 
men  (for  I  should  call  your  Thomas  a  gentleman), 
he  is  deficient,  no  doubt,  in  the  memory  of  names.5* 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  very  good  humour  with 
yourself,  this  morning,  William  ?" 

"0  yes.  That's  always  the  case.  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?  This  is  a  very  pleasant  world,  if  a 
man  will  but  have  sense  enough  to  take  his  share 
of  the  good  things  of  life,  as  they  are  going,  ism 


A  COLD  AND  CALCULATING  LOVER.      87 

I  have  called  upon  you  on  a  particular  business, 

Mrs.  Leslie."  j 

«  You  have  ?» 

"Yes.     And  first.  1  want  to  know  whether,  in 
an  affair  of  the  heart  —  li-hem! — I  can  confide  3n 
<          you  implicitly  ?" 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Leslie  brightened  up. 

•'  Confide  in  me  ?     Of  course  you  can,"  she 
replied,  affecting  a  slightly  offended  air. 
<;  "  Very  well.     Then  I  want  to  have  a  good  long          \ 

£         talk  with  you." 

"But,  surely,  this  isn't  my  young  friend,  Wil 
liam  Archer  ?  And  are  you  really  smitten  with 
the  bright  eyes  of  some  charming  maiden  ?  1  am 
delighted  to  hear  it." 

"  Hem !  Not  too  fast,  Mrs.  Leslie.  I  can't  ex 
actly  say  that  I  am  downright  in  love ;  for  I  don't 
think  it  is  in  me  to  love  any  one  very  deeply,  i 

except  my  humble  self.     But  it  strikes  me,  that  I 
ought  to  begin  to  calculate  the  main  chance  —  to  $ 

look  to  the  future.    I  am  now  twenty-seven,  and 
have  gone  on  at  a  pretty  wild  rate.     Though  ]  ;! 

dont  think  I  am  quite  so  bad  as  some  good  sort  of  \ 

people   are   disposed  to  think  me.     They  talk 
pretty  hard  of  me,  sometimes,  don't  they  ?" 

Mrs.  Leslie  assumed  a  grave  face,  as  became 
her,  and  replied, — 


88  THE    MAIDEN. 

"  It >s  a  fad ,  William ;  you  are  spoken  of,  pretty 
severely.  J?ut  I  have  always  taken  your  part 
1  knew  thore  was  good  in  you." 

"  As  there  is  in  every  one.   Thank  you — thank         < ; 
you,  my  friend.     Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  have 
^  Deen  going  on,  for  the  last  six  or  seven  years,  at  a         < 

•',  wild  rate,  and  am  beginning  to  fear  that,  if  I  don't 

sober  down  a  little,  it  will  not  be  quite  so  good 
for  me  in  the  end.  Now,  how  shall  I  sober  down  ? 
that  is  the  question  ?" 

"  Get  a  sweet  little  wife." 

"That's  just  my  own  opinion.     And  here  I 

want  your  advice.     If  I  marry,  it  must  be  either 

j;  for  love  or  money.     Or  rather,  my  wife  must  be 

!>  the  loveliest  woman  to  be  found;    or  she  must 

have  some  substantial  virtues.     One  or  the  other 

of  these  is  indispensable.     And  I  will  tell  you- 

why.   Between  you  and  myself,  I  have  got  nearly         $ 

to  the  end  of  my  rope.     My  father  left  me  a  fair         *f 

property,  but  it's  pretty  well  all  used  up — in  what 

$  ^sjy  it  is  now  no  good  to  mention.     It  is  enough 

that  it  has  taken  to  itself  wings  and  flown  away." 

"You  surprise  me,  William!" 

**  It  is  true ;  and  there  is  now  no  use  of  crying 
over  it.  My  only  wise  course  is>  to  make  an 
effort  to  better  my  fortune.  I  have  looked  around 
noe  for  some  time,  and  have,  finally,  selected 


A  COLD  AND  CALCULATING  LOVER.     S9 

two  young  ladies,  between  whom  my  choice  must 
lie.  There  are  plenty  to  choose  from ;  but,  some 
that  I  would  like  to  be  on  very  amiable  terms 
with,  seem  inclined  to  give  me  the  cold  shoulder. 
One  of  the  two,  I  have  selected,  1  would  prefer 
to  the  other.  But,  if  she  is  not  to  be  had,  the 
other  is ;  at  least  I  think  so." 

"Don't    be   too  sanguine.      But    name   your 
choice  ;  and  then  I  can  tell  you  better." 
I  "  I  may  count  on  your  aid  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly.  You  needn't  doubt  that  for  a 
<  moment.  But,  why  do  you  think  of  anything 
^  beside  a  wife  with  money,  if  matters  are  becoming 

desperate  with  you  ?" 

<;  "  I  have  an  old  uncle,  who  is  rich  as  a  Jew." 

"  So  you  have." 

"  But,  the  old  rascal  has  blown  me  up  several 
$  times,  for  my  free  way  of  living.  When  he  finds 
out  that  I  have  run  through  my  patrimony,  he 
will  cut  me  off,  I  am  afraid,  without  a  dollar. 
But,  if  I  have  the  sweet  creature  for  a  wife  I 
have  fixed  my  eyes  upon,  she  will  soften  his 
heart  right  down,  and  take  me,  for  her  own  dear 
sake,  at  once  into  his  good  graces.  I  know  the 
old  fellow's  weakness." 

"  Ah !    That 's  your  game !   You  calculate  with 
8* 


90  THE   MAIDEN. 

coolness.    Now  lell  me  who  this  charming  crea 
ture  is.     Am  I  acquainted  with  her  P9 

"  Yes.  Her  name  is  Anna  Lee.  7  first  saw 
her  in  your  house." 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  grave. 

"No  chance  for  me,  then?"  inquired  the  young 
man. 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Is  she  engaged?" 

"No.  But  she  has  just  declined  one  of  the 
best  offers  in  the  city — an  offer  favoured  by  her 
parents." 

"  She  has  ?  Who  is  the  disappointed  lover, 
pray?" 

"  Herbert  Gardiner." 

"  Possible !  Has  he  offered  himself,  and  been 
refused  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  angry  enough  he  is  about  it.  I 
think  the  girl  was  a  great  fool ;  —  indeed  I  know 
she  was.  But  it 's  her  own  look  out." 

"  There  may  be  a  chance  for  me,  though,  for  all 
that." 

"I  should  very  much  doubt  it.     And  I'll  tell 
you  why.      My  opinion  is,  that  she  has  heard 
something  about  Gardiner's  habits,  and  has  been         < 
silly  enough  to  make  that  an  objection,  as  if  any         jj 
young  men  were  as  pure  ar  saints." 

[ J 


w-W>^^-^ 


A   COLD   AJTO    CALCULATING   LOVER.  91 

"  Ho !  ho !"  laughed  Archer. 

"  I  imagine  that  here  lies  the  gist  of  the  whole 
matter.  And,  as  report  says  a  great  deal  more 
aoout  you  than  it  does  about  Gardiner,  I  should 
think  your  chance  with  the  girl  not  worth  speak 
ing  about." 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  that.  She  is  certainly  a 
lovely  creature.  And  now  that  she  has  sent  Gar 
diner  off,  I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to  make 
a  conquest  of  her." 

"It  would  be  something  of  which  to  be  proud. 
But,  as  I  said  before,  I  don't  believe  you  have 
even  the  smallest  chance  of  success.  Who  is  the 
other  young  lady,  on  whom  you  have  fixed  your 
eye  ?w 

"  Florence  Armitage." 

"  Ah !     Her  father  is  not  so  very  wealthy." 

"  No,  not  so  rich  as  Crcesus.  Still  he  may  be 
worth  some  forty  or  fifty  thousand  now,  and  is  in 
the  way  of  being  worth  three  times  as  much  in 
the  next  ten  years.  He  is  doing,  at  this  time,  so 
I  have  clearly  ascertained,  about  the  best  business 
of  any  man  in  the  city." 

"  I  can't  say  that  Florence  is  a  favourite  with 
me." 

"  Nor  with  me  either.  She  lacks  maidenly  re- 
•erve,  and  that  sensitiveness  of  feeling  so  beautiful 


92  THE    MAIDEN 

in  a  young  woman.  Do  you  know,  that  she  once 
as  good  as  asked  me  to  take  her  to  see  Fanny 
Ellsler  kick  up  her  heels  in  a  style  that  I  shouldn't 
like  my  sister,  if  I  had  one,  to  witness?" 

"  You  took  her  ?" 

"  0  yes ;  how  could  I  help  it  ?  She  was  de 
lighted,  and  called  the  Ellsler's  dancing  by  all  sorts 
of  charming  names ;  while  I,  who  am  pretty  much 
of  a  sinner,  and  hard  to  put  to  the  blush,  felt  half 
ashamed  to  look  the  girl  in  the  face." 

"  Humph !" 

"  I  can  get  her  for  the  asking,  I  know.  But  I 
want  to  try  Anna  Lee.  She  is  much  more  to  be 
desired,  portionless,  even  by  me,  than  Florence  is, 
with  all  her  expectations." 

"  Your  chance,  I  must  again  say,  is  a  very  poor 
one." 

"  Do  you  think  it  useless  to  try  ?"  jj 

"  Almost.     But,  it  is  said,  there  is  nothing  like         j; 
trying."  <; 

"Will  you  aid  me  *» 

"All  in  my  power.  But  she  hasn't  been  to 
gee  me  since  her  affair  with  Gardiner  came  to  an 
issue ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  she  intends  visiting 
me  again." 

"  You  must  send  for  her.    How  so*  in  are  you 


A  COLD  AND  CALCULATING  LOVER.      93 

going  to  have  another  of  your  pleasant  gatherings* 
Pretty  soon  ?» 

"I  think  so." 

"  How  soon  ?  I  wish  to  strike  while  the  iron 
is  hot." 

"  In  two  or  three  weeks." 

"  Can't  you  say  next  week  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Next  week  will  be  here  very 
speedily." 

"  Can't  you,  just  for  my  sake  ?" 

"  I  like  to  be  obliging,  especially  to  my  young 
friends.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  do  so." 

"  Say  you  will." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Impatience !  I  shall  do  no  such 
thing.     If  all  things  conspire,  I  will  have  com 
pany  next  week.     But  don't  forget  the  adage  — 
5         '  There  is  luck  in  leisure ;'  and  that  it  is  specially 
applicable  in  matters  of  this  kind." 

"I'll  win  her,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  William 
Archer !"  said  the  young  man,  his  confidence  in-          \ 
creasing,  the  more  he  thought  about  Anna  Lee. 

"  Don't  be  too  certain.  Anna  has  a  cool  head, 
as  well  as  a  warm  heart." 

"  I  know.  Bui  every  young  lady  has  her  weak 
point,  and  I'll  try  hard  to  find  out  hers.  Once 
certain  of  that,  and  I  am  safe  * 


.---rw^-ta^  • 


5  CHAPTER  X. 

>  »     fcOHEME    TO    ENTRAP    THE    HEART    OF 

ANNA    LEE. 

ABOUT  a  week  after  the  interview  between  Mrs. 
J          Leslie  and  young  Archer,  as  described  in  the  last 

chapter,  a  note  was  left  for  Anna  Lee,  containing 
I;          an  invitation  for  her  to  spend  an  evening -at  the 

house  of  the  former.     "  A  few  friends  are  to  be 

present,"  was  added  to  the  note. 
I;  "What   have   you   there?"    asked   Mrs.   Lee, 

coming  into  Anna's  room,  about  ten  minutes  after, 

and  finding  her  daughter  sitting  in  a  thoughtful 
\          mood,  with  Mrs.  Leslie's  invitation  in  her  hand. 
J>  Anna  gave  her  mother  the  note.     After  reading 

it,  she  handed  it  back,  and  said  with  a  smile  — 
"  Mrs.  Leslie  is  very  kind,  always  to  remember 

3  on  when  she  has  company." 
\  « Yes." 

This  response  was  cold,  and  made  in  an  equivo- 
}          cal   tone.     Anna   said   nothing   more,  and  Mrs. 

Lee  did  not  refer  more  particularly  to  the  subject. 

On  the  day  before  the  one  to  which  the  invitation 

had  referred,  Anna  said  to  her  mother — 

(94) 


A    SCHEME.  95  ; 

6  After  thinking  a  good  deal  about  it,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  to 
morrow,  nor  ever  again," 

"  Have  you  a  good  reason  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not  one  that  I  could  make  full}'  plain 
to  everybody.  But  I  think  you  can  understand 
me.  I  don't  feel  right,  when  I  think  of  going 
there." 

\ 

"  There  must  be  some  reasons  for  such  a  feeling."  > 

"  And  there  are.  But  even  these  reasons  are 
so  linked  with  feelings,  that  my  mind  cannot  sepa 
rate  and  give  them  distinctness." 

"  Freely  state  to  me  all  your  reasons  and  feel 
ings,"  said  the  mother.  "  Perhaps,  together,  we  can 
arrive  at  a  distinct,  rational  conclusion." 

"  I  have  liked  Mrs.  Leslie,  because  she  always 
seemed  pleased  to  have  me  visit  her,  and  showed 
me  very  kind  attentions,"  Anna  remarked.  "  But, 
at  the  same  time,  there  has  been  something  about 
her  that  I  could  not  understand,  and  from  which 
I  have  felt  an  involuntary  shrinking.  She  is  the 
intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Gardiner ;  and,  I  think,  must  \\ 

be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  character  and 
habits.  She  may  be  a  woman  of  sound  principles ; 
but  my  mind  has  many  doubts.  Any  how,  I  do 
not  wish  to  meet  Mr.  Gardiner,  as  I  certainly 
shall,  if  I  go  to  her  house." 


96  THE   MAIDEN. 

f 

"And  the  invitation  may  only  be  intended  to          j 
procure  a  meeting  between  you  and  that  young 
man,"  suggested  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"You  say,  that  there  was  always  something         ;> 
about  Mrs.  Leslie  that  repulsed  you  ?" 

"Yes.      Something  that  seemed   instantly  to          ,s 
assault  my  purest  and  .best  feelings.     I  do  not 


recollect,  now  I  begin  to  think  of  it,  that  I  ever 


heard  her  declare  a  high  principle  of  action.  I 
am  sure  I  have  heard  very  wrong  sentiments 
uttered  by  young  ladies,  in  her  presence,  to 
which  she  never  opposed  the  truth.  For  all  she  5 
had  pleasant  words.  All  she  aimed  to  please 
But  is  it  good  to  be  constantly  flattered  and 
favoured,  and  never  opposed,  even  when  thinking 
ind  speaking  wrong  ?  I  do  not  believe  so." 

"Nor  is  it,  Anna.      No  true-minded  woman          \ 
can  listen  to  wrong  sentiments  from  the  lips  of 
young  ladies,  without  correcting  them.     She  who 
fails  to  do  so,  is  not  just  to  her  sex." 

"  So  I  have  felt,  whenever  anything  led  me  to 
think  about  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Leslie  treats 
the  many  young  persons  who  meet  at  her  house." 

"Does  she  talk  to  them  often  about  theii 
oeaux  V9 

"  0  yes.      It    is  almost  her  constant  theme. 


A   SCHEME.  97 

She  is  sure  to  have  something  to  say  about  how 
much  this  or  that  one  is  pleased  with  you,  every 
time  you  meet  her.  To  me,  she  was  constantly 
dropping  something  about  Mr.  Gardiner." 

"  And,  no  doubt,  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  pro 
posal  to  you." 

"I  have  never  thought  that."  And  Anna 
joked  up  into  her  mother's  face  with  surprise. 
"  But  it  may  be  true." 

"  I  now  understand  you  fully ;"  Mrs.  Lee  said. 
"  You  are  right  in  not  wishing  to  go  to  her  house 
again.  I  would  not  have  you  do  so  on  any  account. 
Such  a  woman  is  a  young  maiden's  most  dangerous 
friend.  She  should  be  shunned  as  carefully  as 
you  would  shun  an  open  enemy." 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  as  I  do  about  going  to  her 
nouse,"  returned  Anna,  seeming  much  relieved. 
"  Between  me  and  her,  there  is  nothing  really 
congenial.  I  take  no  pleasure  in  talking  all  the 
time  about  young  men ;  and  she  seems  to  think 
there  is  no  theme  so  interesting — nothing  so  plea 
sant  to  a  maiden's  ear." 

There  was  a  gay  company  at  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Leslie,  on  the  next  evening.  But  Anna  was  not 
there.  Archer  did  not  arrive  till  late.  This  waa 
intended. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Lee'1"  he  asked,  drawing  Mrs. 


98  THE    MAIDEN. 

Leslie  aside,  soon  after  he  came  in.     "  I  don't  se« 
her  here." 

"  No.  She  sent  rne  a  note  declining  the  invi 
tation." 

"  On  what  ground  ?" 

"  No  ground  at  all.  I  read  it  as  a  flat  refusal 
to  accept  my  invitation." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?» 

"She  thanked  me  for  my  kind  courtesy,  but         «j 
begged,  for  reasons  not  necessary  to  explain,  so 
she  said,  to  be  excused." 

"  Confound  it  all!  It  is  too  bad!  Do  you  think 
she  suspected  the  whole  plan  ?" 

"  No.     How  should  she  ?" 

"I  must  and  will  see  her." 

"  If  you  can." 

"I'll  call  at  her  father's  house." 

"  0,  well.  You  can  do  that.  She  can't  declme 
going  there — or,  rather,  staying  there.  But,  what 
good  will  it  do  you  V* 

"  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady." 

"  True.  And  a  fair  lady  can  usually  be  won, 
if  the  lover  persevere." 

"  The  very  thing  that  I  will  do.  I  will  break 
through  the  ice  by  calling  upon  her.  I  have  met 
her  often  enough  here  to  be  authorized  to  do  this.'1 

"And  after  that?" 


A   SCHEME.  99 

"  Once  let  me  get  at  the  maiden's  ear,  and  I 
will  try  hard  to  charm  it.  In  the  first  interview 
I  have  with  her,  I  will  sweep  the  whole  circle  of 
subjects  likely  to  interest  a  lady;  and  when  I  have 
found  the  right  one,  I  will  play  dexterously  upon 
that  string.  Before  leaving  her  I  will  succeed  in 
effecting  an  engagement  of  some  kind  or  other ; — 
to  go  to  church  or  opera ;  concert  or  exhibition. 
At  a  second  meeting,  I  will  talk  of  virtue  and 
morality  like  any  saint ;  and  even  venture  to  hint 
something  about  early  errors  long  since  repented 
of,  and,  I  trust,  forgiven  by  God  and  man.  Don't 
£  you  think  I  will  make  my  way  into  her  confi- 
;>  dence  ?  After  gaining  a  few  of  the  outworks  to 
the  citadel  of  her  heart,  I  will  continue  to  approach 
with  great  caution ;  and  be  very  careful  not  to 
strike  foolishly,  like  Gardiner,  before  the  iron  is 
hot.  You  see,  I  understand  what  I  am  about." 

"Yes.  But  you  have  no  ordinary  person  to 
deal  with.  Anna  Lee  will  see  through  you  at  a  ;) 
glance,  and  act  with  a  promptness  such  as  you 
have  not  been  used  to  meeting  in  young  ladies 
To  me,  she  is  almost  too  perfect — too  free  from 
weakness." 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  that.  I  like  your  real  women. 
But  women-angels  are  a  little  above  my  com 
prehension.  I  don't  know  how  to  take  them. 


J  100  THE    MAIDEN. 

Still,  as  I  have  set  out,  I  shall  go  through  .he 
matter.  There  never  was  any  back-out  in  me, 
and  never  shall  be.  I  've  come  round  as  good  as 
she  is,  in  my  time,  and — " 

J  u  William !"   And  Mrs.  Leslie  raised  her  finger          J 

£  and  affected  a  grave  face.  |> 

The  young  man,  who  was  about  to  venture,  as          ;j 
Mrs.  Leslie  perceived,  upon  a  boast  of  wickedness, 
became  silent,  but  showed  no  confusion.     He  had          '< 
not  really  offended  the  lady  with  whom  he  was 
conversing,  that  he  could  plainly  see.     She  had 
only  checked  him  for  the  sake  of  appearances  j  and 
this  was  just  as  apparent  to  his  mind  as  it  was  to 
hers.     In  a  moment  he  resumed,  with  a  smile, 

"  I  know  I  'm  something  of  a  bad  boy ;  but  you         <! 
tan  forgive  me,  if  other  people  can't.     As  I  was 
saying,  I  never  suffer  myself  to  be  foiled  in  any-         J 
thing  I  set  my  head  about;  and  I  shall  not  be 
foiled  in  this." 

«  We  shall  see."     • 

"  So  we  shall.  And  if  I  don't  have  this  very 
coy  and  fastidious  young  lady  completely  caged 
before  a  month,  my  name  isn't  William  Archer." 

"  Success  to  your  adventure !" 

"Thank  you!  You  shaE  dance  at  my  wed 
ding,  before  six  months," 

"  Not  if  you  marry  Anna  Lee." 


A   SCHEME.  101 

"Why*" 

"  She  has  thought  fit  to  declina  an  invitation  to 
my  house,  without  alleging  a  reason.  Such  con 
duct  from  persons  standing  on  my  own  level,  I 
should  not  pass  by ;  much  less  from  one  to  whom 

<  I  have  stooped — from  one  whom  I  have  beea 
j          endeavouring  to  lift  from  her  native  obscurity. 

<  1  feel  no  unkindness  towards  the  girl ;  but  self- 
respect  will  not  permit  me  again  to  notice  her." 

"Don't  talk  so  foolishly,  Mrs.  Leslie." 
"  I  mean  just  what  I  say,  William.     I  shall  not 
again  notice  the  girl." 

"Suppose  she  makes  an  apology?     Will  that 
;>         alter  the  face  of  things  ?" 

"  Certainly.  That  would  restore  former  rela 
tions." 

"She  shall  do  it!" 
£  Mrs.  Leslie  smiled. 

"  She  shall !  In  less  than  six  weeks  you  will 
be  on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy." 

In  thus  boasting  of  what  he  could  and  would 
accomplish,  the  young  man  was  not,  consciously, 
expending  mere  idle  breath      Judging  from  his 
«!          former  success  in  winning  his  way  into  the  fa 
vourable  regard  of  young  ladies,  he  believed  that 
he  would  again  be  successful.     He  had  much  in 
his  fh'/our,  so  far  as  externals  were  concerned. 
9* 


F  \ 

102  THE    MAIDEN. 

His1  person  was  attractive,  his  manners  easy  and 
fascinating,  and   his  tastes   cultivated.     He   had 
spent  two  years  in  Europe,  and  had  come  home          \ 
with  all  the  extend  advantages  a  residence  on 
the  continent  gives  to  an  intelligent  mind,  and  all 
the  moral  defects  it  entails  upon  an  impure  one.          \ 
J          In  heart  a  villain,  he  could  assume  the  air  of  a 
saint ;  and  he  was  ready  to  do  so  at  any  moment 
that  it  suited  his  purpose. 

Understanding  the  power  of  false  appearances, 
and  knowing  how  perfectly  he  could  assume  them, 
Archer  did  not  entirely  over  estimate  his  ability 
to  insinuate  himself  into  the  good  feelings  of  young  { 
I;  ladies.  He  had  already  succeeded  in  doing  so,  in 
•j  more  than  one  instance,  even  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  the  most  base  and  infamous  purposes ;  for 
which  he  was  execrated  by  many  virtuous  minds, 
and  by  none  more  deeply  than  by  Anna  Lee.  At 
the  same  time,  the  melancholy  truth  must  be  told, 
that  fo^r-fifths  of  the  entire  number  of  those  who 
-vere  fully  conversant  with  all  the  sad  details  of 
nis  base  conduct,  fathers,  mothers  and  daughters, 
welcomed  him  to  their  houses,  and  associated  with  \ 
him  as  freely  and  as  cordially  as  before ;  while  the 
victims  of  his  infernal  passions  were  thrust  out, 
cast  do\m,  trampled  under  foot,  and  consigned  to 
hopeless  infamy !  How  the  heart  sickens  at  thi» 


CATCHING   HUSBANDS.  103  j 

j 

picture!     Would  that  it  were  only  an  imaginary 

one !     Would  that  the  best  society  around  us  con-  •! 

tained  no  William  Archers,  or  that  it  had  the 

healthy  moral  force  to  throw  them  out,  as  base 

and  unworthy!     But  alas!  it  yet  lacks  this  healthy  \ 

action  at  the  vitals.     And  this  fact  the  truly  pure  £ 

and  good  ought  never  to  forget. 

But  we  will  pass  on,  and  see  how  far  the  young 
man  Archer  is  successful  in  his  efforts  to  woo  and 
win  the  heart  of  a  maiden,  whose  perceptions  of 
moral  qualities  are  so  acute  as  those  of  Anna  Lee 

\ 


CHAPTER  XI. 

CATCHING    HUSBANDS. 

ANNA  LEE  sat  sewing  one  morning,  a  few  days* 
after  she  had  declined  going  to  Mrs.  Leslie's, 
when  Florence  Armitage,  gaily  dressed,  called  in 
to  see  her.  There  were  many  things  about  Flo 
rence  that  pleased  Anna,  although  she  did  not 
approve  much  that  she  did  and  said.  Her  mother 
was  a  weak  woman,  and  her  father  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  business  to  pay  attention  to  his  family; 


104  THE    MAIDEN. 

so  that,  oetween  them,  her  home  education  had 
been  very  much  neglected,  and  very  badly  man 
aged  as  far  as  it  went.     Anna  really  pitied  her 
>  for  the  defects  of  her  character;  and,  whenever 

an  opportunity  occurred,  strove  to  correct  them. 

"  Come,  Anna,  put  up  your  work,"  Florence 
said.     "  The  day  is  too  fine  a  one  to  be  spent  in-         ij 
doors.      I  have  called  on  purpose  to  take  you 
out." 

"I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  Florence," 
Anna  returned,  smiling,  "but  I  cannot  go  out 
to-day." 

"  Yes  you  can,  I  know.  What  in  the  world  is 
there  to  keep  you  at  home  ?" 

"A  great  deal.     We  have  a  large  family;  and 
that   makes  plenty  of  work.     It's  as  much  as         '< 
mother  and  I  can  both  do  to  keep  the  children's 
clothes  in  order,  after  we  get  one-half  of  them         <! 
made  by  a  seamstress."  J 

"  One-half?  You  don't  pretend  to  make  half 
of  their  clothes!" 

"  Yes.     Why  not,  if  we  can  ?" 

"Just  for  the  reason  that  you  ought  not  to 
make  a  slave  of  yourself." 

"And  I  don't.  I  must  be  engaged,  usefully, 
all  the  while,  and  nothing  more  useful  offers.  1 
should  be  very  sorry,  indeed,  to  sit  down  and  fold 


CA1JH1NG    HUSBANDS.  105 

my  lianas  in  idleness,  and  put  father  to  the  ex 
pense  of  a  seamstress  in  the  house,  for  the  whole 
year  round.  It  would  injure  me,  and  be  a  burden 
to  him.  I  am  sure  I  should  not  be  as  happy  as  J 
now  am,  in  the  consciousness  that  I  am  doing  onlv 
what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  You  are  a  strange  kind  of  a  girl,  Anna ;  and 
yet,  I  sometimes  wish  that  I  were  just  like  you, 
But  I  ain't,  and  can't  be,  so  there  is  no  usex  iv 
wishing.  However,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  want  you 
to  go  out  with  me  this  lovely  morning." 

"  Why  are  you  so  desirous  to  have  my  com 
pany  ?" 

"Because  I  like  you,  I  suppose,  and  want  to 
have  you  share  a  delightful  promenade." 
'  "  Where  ?" 

"  Oh,  down  Chestnut  Street,  of  course." 


"  Why  down  Chestnut  Street  ?" 


«  To  meet  the  beaux." 

"Florence!" 

Anna  looked  at  her  young  friend  in  surprise. 

"  Don't  put  on  that  grave  face,  Anna.  What 
..arm  have  I  said  ?  Is  there  anything  wrong  in 
valkmg  out  to  Jook  at  the  beaux  ?  Haven't  you 
lone  it  ycrarsttf  hundreds  of  times  ? 

"  Me  vt   And  the  colour  on  the  maiden's  cneek 


106 


THE    MAIDEN. 


deepened  to  ail  indignant  blush.    "  Me,  Florence 
No,  never !" 

"You  haven't?  What  harm  is  there  in  it, 
pray  ?" 

"How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,  Florence ^ 

"  Innocently  enough,  for  I  am  perfectly  uncon 
scious  of  any  wrong  in  the  matter,  I  have  walked 
out,  hundreds  of  times,  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  meet  the  beaux  on  the  streets,  and  get  a  bow 
from  this  one,  a  smile  from  that  one,  and,  per 
haps,  a  very  agreeable  chat  for  a  square  or  two, 
with  another.  It's  delightful!  And  as  to  the 
harm,  I  think  it  will  puzzle  even  you  to  point  it 
out.  So  come,  put  up  your  work  for  this  once, 
and  go  with  me ;  I  know  you  will  enjoy  it  as 
much  as  I  do." 

Anna  shook  her  head,  and  looked  even  more 
serious  than  before. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  strange  creature,  Miss  Lee, ' 
Florence  said.  "  And  you  won't  go  V) 

"No — of  course  not." 

"  I  know  two  girls  that  got  husbands  just  by 
walking  down  Chestn  t  Street  every  day.  There 
now .  What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  lady 7" 

"  Why,  Florence  !"  exclaimed  Anna. 

"It 's  true.  Lizzy  Glenn,  who  was  married  last 
veek  to  Gaskill,  met  him  first  in  the  street.  He 


CATCHING   HUSBANDS.  107 

jj         saw  her  one  day,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with 
J         her  appearance,  that  he  followed  her  home  to  see 
>         who  she  was  and  where  she  lived.    A  day  or  two 
I;          dlter wards  he  met  her  again,  and  looked  at  her 
so  hard  that  she  noticed  it.     For  nearly  a  week 
they  met  every  day,   she  encouraging   him  by 
looks,  until  he  ventured  to  bow  to  her.     She  re- 
J          turned  the  salutation.      On  the  following  day  he 
not  only  spoke  to,  but  joined  her,  and  walked  for 
two  or  three  squares  by  her   side.     The   next 
advance  was  to  accompany  her  home.   After  that, 
things  went  on  as  pleasantly  as  could  be  wished, 
and  in  two  months  they  were  married.    Every 
body  says  it  is  an  excellent  match.    Now  wasn't 
that  delightful!      For  my  part,  if  I  thought  it 
would  be  my  good  luck  to  catch  a  husband  so 
easily,  I  would  walk  Chestnut  Street  from  Mon 
day  morning   until   Saturday   night.      Wouldn't 
you "?" 

"  Husbands  caught  in  that  way,  I  should  hardly 
think  worth  having,"  Anna  gravely  replied. 
"  Why  not  ?    Isn't  Gaskill  worth  having  ?" 
"  I  know  nothing  about  him." 
"  I  do  then ;  and  I  only  wish  he  had  fancied 
me  instead  of  Lizzy  Glenn.     I  think  I  would  have 
made  him  quite  as  good  a  wife." 

"  Tt  pains  me  to  hear  you  speak  lightly  ot  so 


Y*I 

I  OS  THE   MAIDEN. 

serious  a  matter,  Florence,"  Anna  returned. —         «; 
"  Marriage  is  the  last  subject  on  which  a  maiden        c 
should  trifle.     If  she  think  of  it  all,  it  should  be 
with  subdued  and  holy  feelings.     On  no  account        « 
should  she  be  anxious  for  the  duties  and  responsi 
bilities  of  wedded  life — on  no  account  should  she         > 
seek  to  attract  attention.     But,  if  sought  by  one 
whose  principles  she  can  approve,  and  with  whose 
heart  her  own  can  beat  responsively,  then  she 
should,  with  a  calm,  deep,  woman's  trust,  give 
herself  to  him,  and  seek  to  become  one  with  him. 
Only  in  such  a  union  can  she  hope  to  he  blessed.         ;j 
To  desire  any  other  is  folly — to  form  any  other 
is  madness.     Ah,  my  friend !  if  all  women  had  so 
acted,  there  would  not  now  be  so  many  sad-hearted 
wives ;  and  that  there  are  many,  many  such,  even 
we  have  been  made  painfully  conscious." 

The  manner  of  Anna,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
as  well  as  her  words,  caused  the  feelings  of  Flo 
rence  to  change.  Her  character  was  not  all  per 
verted.  There  was  yet  enough  of  the  woman  in 
her,  to  feel  that  what  her  friend  had  said  was 
true.  She  replied,  in  a  quieter  tone  than  any  ia 
which  she  had  yet  spoken, 

"  According  to  your  idea,  a  young  girl  should 
keep  out  of  the  sight  of  young  men  u  much  as 
possible.'* 


"»r^-»/-w-^"j 

CATCHING    HUSBANDS.  10S 


\  "  She  should  not  seek  to  attract  their  attention 

This  is  all  I  mean." 

"  Then  she  ought  never  to  go  into  company  ?" 
"  That  does  not  follow.     At  a  suitable  age,  let 
her  go  into  company  by  all  means.     But  while  in 
s         company,  let  her  be  retiring  and  modest." 
•1  "  And  so  get  no  attentions  paid  to  her  ?"  § 

jj  "  She  may  not  receive  the  attentions  of  those 

who  look  no  deeper  than  a  gay  dress  and  an  impo 
sing  manner ;  but  she  will  lose  nothing  by  this. 
\         But,  for  me,  I  cannot  conceive  why  a  young  girl 
.J         should  be  anxious  about  having  the  attentions  of 
young  men." 

"  As  to  the  why,  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any 
!»         great  use  in  stopping  to  reason  about  it — the  fact 
is  indisputable.     We  do  like  to  receive  their  at- 
\        tentions.     Isn't  it  so  ?" 

"  I  can  only  speak  for  myself,"  Anna  replied. 
^         "  For  one,  I  neither  think  about,  nor  desire  the 
attentions  of  young  men,  while  in  company.     I  do 
not  object  to  them.     They  are,  in  fact,  when  made 
by  the  honourable-minded,  pleasant  to  me." 
"  And  you  would  be  unhappy,  if  neglected  V 
"  No.     I  have  been  as  happy  while  conversing 
a  whole  evening  in  a  circle  of  ladies,  as  I  have 
been  when  surrounded  by  gentlemen.   Why  should 
I  not  be?" 
10 


110  THE   MAIDEN. 

"  You  are  not  like  any  other  girl  I  ever  saw, 
Anna.  I  can't  make  you  out,  altogether.  If  1 
didn't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  I  would  say  you 
had  no  heart.  But  I  know  you  have,  and  a  warm 
one  too.  Ah,  me !  I  wish  I  could  be  just  like 
you.  And  so  you  won't  put  by  your  sewing  and 
walk  with  me  ?" 

"  No,  Florence ;  I  cannot  spare  the  time,  for  one 
thing — and  for  another,  I  could  not  walk  out,  un 
less  I  had  a  higher  end  in  view  than  the  one  you 
are  proposing  to  yourself.  But  suppose  you  lay 
off  your  things,  and  spend  the  morning  with  me." 

"  No,  thank  you !  I  have  come  out  for  a  walk 
on  Chestnut  Street,  and  I  must  have  it.  So,  good 
morning,  dear,  if  I  am  not  to  have  your  good  com 
pany." 

Florence  rose,  as  she  said  this,  and  moved 
towards  the  door.  The  friends  chatted  a  few 
minutes  longer,  standing,  and  then  the  visiter  de 
parted. 

Going  at  once  into  Chestnut  Street,  Florence 
Armitage  took  her  way  slowly  down.  She  had 
not  gone  far,  before  she  met  William  Archer,  who 
joined  her.  Although  the  young  man  had  re 
solved  to  make  a  demonstration  in  another  quarter, 
he  thought  it  nothing  more  than  a  wise  policy  to 
maintain  with  Florence  the  best  possible  under- 


CATCHING   HUSBANDS. 


Ill 


standing;  so  that,  should  he  fail,  as  prophesied  by 
his  friend,  Mrs,  Leslie,  in  his  attempts  to  win 
Anna  Lee,  he  might  have  all  things  in  such  a  fair 
train,  that  an  offer  could  at  once  be  made  to  Flo 
rence.  As  to  the  acceptance  of  that  offer,  he  had 
no  very  serious  doubts.  On  this  occasion,  he 
strolled  about  for  an  hour  with  Florence,  made 
two  or  three  calls  with  her,  and  then  saw  her  to 
her  own  door. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Anna  Lee  sat  read 
ing  to  her  father  and  mother,  when  one  of  the 
domestics  came  in,  and  said  that  a  young  gentle- 
,  man  was  in  the  parlour,  who  wished  to  see  her. 
"  Who  is  it  V>  asked  Anna. 
"He  did  not  tell  me  his  namfe,"  replied  the 
domestic. 

The  maiden  cast  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  and 
thought  for  a  moment ;  then  looking  up,  she  said, 
"  Ask  him  to  send  up  his  name,  Margaret." 
"  Hadn't  you  better  go  down,  Anna  ?     Perhaps 
it  may  be  some  friend,  who  will  think  you  rude," 
Mr.  Lee  remarked. 

Anna  thought  again,  ar.d  then  replied — 
"  I  would  rather  Margaret  would  get  his  name.** 
"  Go  then,  Margaret,"  said  Mr.  Lee,  who  was 
Deginning  to  fed  a  deeper  respect  for  his  daughter's 


112  THE   MAIDEN. 

perceptions  of  what  was  right  in  matters  that  con-         I 
cerned  herself. 

"  Who  can  it  be,  I  wonder  ?M  the  mother  asked, 
half  musingly. 

Anna  did  not  reply,  but  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  > 
the  page  of  the  book  she  had  been  reading.  In  a 
few  moments  the  domestic  returned,  and  handed 
her  a  card.  Her  cheek  flushed  the  moment  she 
saw  the  name  upon  it.  With  something  of  indig 
nation  in  her  voice,  she  said, — 

"  Say  to  him,  Margaret,  that  I  cannot  see  him." 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  asked  the  father  and  mother  at 
the  same  moment.  Anna  handed  her  father  the 
card —  I 

"  William  AVcher  !"  he  ejaculated,  in  surprise. 
"  What  brings  him  here  ?" 

"  He  has  asked  for  me,"  replied  Anna ;  "  but 
I  cannot  see  him." 

"  Hadn't  you,  then,  better  let  Margaret  say  that 
you  will  thank  him  to  excuse  you  this  evening  ?"         ^ 
returned  Mrs.  Lee.     "  That  would  be  a  milder 
way  of. refusing  to  see  the  young  man." 

"  I  would  rather  she  w^uld  say  to  him,  from 
me,  that  I  cannot  see  him.    That  is  just  the  truth,         \ 
and  I  wish  him  to  know  i1 .   I  would  not  sit  alone         ^ 
and  talk  with  that  young  man  for  anything  that 

could  be  given  me."     And  the  pure-hear*ed  girl 

s 

I 


CATCHING  HUSBANDS.  113 

ihuddered  with  an  instinctive  feeling  of  horror  at 
the  thoughts  of  his  character. 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  domestic 
conveyed  to  Archer  Anna's  precise  words.  The 
young  man,  half-prepared  for  some  such  answer, 
since  his  name  had  gone  up.  retired  without  a 
remark,  or  the  evidence  of  a  single  emotion.  But 
he  was  deeply  chagrined,  and  felt  angry  and  bitter 
towards  Anna.  A  muttered  threat  of  revenge 
passed  his  lips  as  he  gained  the  pavement,  and 
strode  off  at  a  rapid  pace.  But  the  sweet  maiden 
was  safe  from  all  harm  he  might  purpose  against 
her  in  his  evil  heart  She  was  surrounded  and 
defended  by  the  sphere  of  her  own  innocence. 

And  were  every  maiden  so  surrounded  and  de 
fended,  every  maiden  would  be  as  safe,  though 
she  were  encompassed  by  a  host  of  those  who 
sought  her  ruin.     Even  the  lion  is  said  to  become          ."; 
tame  in  the  presence  of  a  pure  virgin.     This  la 
much  more  '.han  a  mere  figure  of  speech. 
10* 


CHAPTER  XJT. 

AN    ENGAGEMENT. 

ON  leaving  the  house  of  Mrs.  Lee,  young 
Archer  went  direct  to  his  friend  and  confidant, 
Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  I  called  on  Miss  Lee,  this  evening,"  he  said, 
abruptly,  as  soon  as  he  met  that  lady. 

"  Ah !     Well,  what  was  the  result  ?» 

"  The  huzzy  wouldn't  see  me !" 

"  Hush,  William !  You  mustn't  speak  in  that 
way  about  young  ladies." 

"  The  girl,  then ;  confound  her !" 

"What  did  she  say1?" 

"  I  didn't  tell  my  name  to  the  servant,  when  I 
first  went  in,  merely  sending  up  word  that  a 
gentleman  had  called  to  see  her.  But  I  couldn't  !; 
get  the  start  of  her  in  this  way.  She  would  have 
my  name.  So  I  sent  up  my  card.  In  three 
minutes  the  servant  came  down,  and  said,  c  Miss 
Anna  says  she  cannot  see  you.'  Humph!  Wasn't 
that  telling  me  to  go  about  my  business  in  the 
coolest  way  imaginable?  But  I'll  be  revenged  \ 

(114) 


AN  ENGAGEMENT.  115 

on  her !  I  '11  make  her  repent  of  this  insult — see 
if  I  don't !  and  that  before  a  dozen  months  are 
told." 

"William!  I  won't  hear  you  talk  so,"  inter 
posed  Mi^.  Leslie.  "  You  certainly  are  forgetting 
yourself.  If  Anna  didn't  wish  to  see  you,  she  had 
a  right  to  say  so." 

"  Yes :  but—" 

"Remember,  William,"  added  Mrs.  Leslie, 
"  that  I  told  you  success  was  doubtful,  if  you 
presented  your  suit  in  that  quarter.  Anna  Lee 
I;  has  already  refused  Gardiner,  as  you  know ;  and, 
$  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  her  reasons,  on  account 
of  ligliter  objections  than  lie  at  your  door." 

"  Pah !  that 's  mere  affectation.  A  young  man 
;  is  liked  all  the  better  for  being  a  little  gay.  It 
shows  that  there  is  some  spirit  in  him." 

"Your  doctrine,  however  true  in  the  main, 
won't  hold  good  in  this  case." 

"I  don't  care.  I'll  be  revenged  on  her.  I'll 
humble  her  yet.  I'll  show  the  world  that  she? 
isn't  the  angel  she  pretends  to  be." 

"  I  tell  you,  William,  that  I  will  not  permit  you 
to  speak  before  me,  in  this  way!"  The  base 
threat  of  the  base-hearted  young  man,  awoke  even 
Mrs.  Leslie's  sluggish  sense  of  delicacv  and  right. 

u  Well,  well !   never  mind !"  he  replied,  in  a 


116  THE    MAIDEN. 

softened  tone,  conscious  that  he  had  said  too  mucn 
"  I  '11  try  ai.d  keep  cool."  { 

"  Which  will  be  a  much  more  sensible  thing." 
"  But  shall  I  give  up  the  pursuit  ?" 
"  Yes ;  by  all  means.     No  man  who  has  any 
independent  feelings  could  know,  or  wish  to  know, 
the  individual  who  had  refused  to  see  him.     There 
is  Florence  Armitage,  who  is  to  be  had,  as  I  know,          <>' 
for  the  asking.     Take  her;  she  will  suit  you  a 
great  deal  better.     Her  tastes  are  not  so  refined, 
nor  her  sense  of  propriety  sc  squeamish  as  are 
those  of  Miss  Lee.     And  then,  you  know,  she 
will  have  something  more  solid  into  the  bargain.          jj. 
Depend  upon  it,  she  will  make  you  a  mucfi  more 


agreeable,  wife." 

<; 


"  Perhaps  so.    But  in  a  wife,  even  I  would 
prefer  the  delicate  reserve  of  Anna  Lee,  to  the 
free,  forward,  kiss-me-if-you-dare  manner  of  Flo-          j| 
rence  Armitage." 

"  Would  you,  indeed  !  You  are  nice  in  your 
distinctions."  § 

"  So  I  ought  to  be,  when  thinking  of  a  wife.  A 
man  ought  to  reflect  a  little  before  he  ties  himself 
to  a  woman's  apron  string  for  life." 


"You  can't  get  Anna  Lee,  and  you  can  get 
Florence  Armitage;  and  you  must,  so  you  say, 
choose  between  them.  What  folly,  then,  to  trifle 


•j 

AN    ENGAGEMENT.  117 

about  it*  Go  forward,  like  a  man,  and  take  the 
latter;  my  word  for  it,  you  will  never  repent 
naving  done  so." 

Urged  by  his  friend,  Mrs.  Leslie,  and  by  the 
indignation  he  felt  at  the  refusal  of  Anna  to  see 
him,  Archer,  in  a  few  days,  determined  the  ques 
tion  in  favour  of  Florence.  With  her,  he  had  no 
difficulty.  Matters  were  soon  on  the  most  favour 
able  footing.  In  about  six  weeks  he  offered  him 
self,  and  was  accepted  without  hesitation  by  the 
maiden.  Her  parents  were  not  so  easily  recon 
ciled.  But  a  covert  intimation  that,  if  consent 
were  not  given,  an  elopement  would  inevitably 


take  place,  brought  them  to  terms.  Had  they 
known  the  real  truth,  that  the  young  man  had 
actually  wasted,  in  dissipation  and  gaming,  the 


have  yielded.     But  this  they  did  not  suspect. 

After  these  preliminaries  were  settled,  much  to 
the  delight  of  Florence,  an  early  day  was  named 
for  the  marriage,  and  all  the  preparations  for  the 
happy  event  begun. 


\          whole  of  his  property,  they  would,  even  then,  not 


CHAPTER 

A     NEW     LOVER. 

THE  reader  will  remember  that  mention  has 
once  or  twice  been  made  of  a  young  man  named 
Hartley. 

A  few  years  previous  to  the  opening  of  our 
story,  James  Hartley  came  to  Philadelphia  as  a         !j 
poor  boy,  and  obtained,  through  the  recommenda-         $ 
tion  of  a  friend  who  knew  his  family,  a  situation         J 
in  a  wholesale  mercantile  house.     His  honesty,         $ 
industry  and  intelligence,  soon  made  him  valuable 
to  his  employers,  who,  as  he  advanced  in  years, 
elevated    him  in  their  confidence  step  by  step, 
until,  long  before  he   had  reached  the  age  of         J 
twenty-one,  he   occupied   the   position  of  their 
chief  and  confidential  clerk.     Never,  in  the  slight 
est  degree,  did  he  betray  their  confidence,  or  tres 
pass  with  undue  familiarity  upon  their  frankness, 
and  the  open,  generous  manner  in  which  they 
always  treated  him.     When  he  became  of  age,  so 
highly  was  he  esteemed  and  valued,  that  he  waa 
offered  a  share  in  the  business,  and  became  one  of 

(118) 


1 

A    NEW   LOVER.  119 


the  firm  of  R ,  S &  Co.,  and  entitled  to         J 

jl          a  moderate  dividend  on  the  profits. 

During  his  minority,  the  young  man  had  devo 
ted  himself  so  closely  to  business,  and  given  to  it 

£         so  much  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  had  neglected  to 

adorn  his  mind  by  tasteful  reading,  and  to  furnish          J 
himself  with  stores  of  general  information.     On          .; 

\          entering  into  company,  at  a  pretty  early  age,  he 
became  aware  of  .his  deficiencies  in  this  respect, 

\         and  to  make  up  for  them  as  rapidly  as  possible,  he 
spent  most  of  his  evenings  in  reading  and  study. 
Naturally  modest  and  disposed  to  think  more  of 
his  deficiencies  than  of  his  attainments,  he  was          { 
retiring  in  company,  and,  therefore,  attracted  out 

!>          little  attention.     He  was  not  much  of  a  favourite 
with  young  ladies,  because  he  did  not  pay  them 
very  marked   or  flattering  attentions.     This  was          $ 
not  the  result  of  intention,  but  arose  from  want  of          j 
that  confidence  in   himself,  which  would   have 
pushed  him  forward  and  made  him  an  agreeable          *f 
companion  to  all.     As  he  gradually  became  better 
and  better  acquainted  with  the  different  ladies  :n 
whose  society  he  was  thrown,  some  liked  him,  and, 
indeed,  highly  esteemed  him,  while  others  thought 
him  a  dull  companion.     He  had  never  learned  to 
dance,  and  this  tended  to  keep  him  back,  and  to 
prevent  his  circle  of  acquaintance  from  enlarging , 

i , J 


120  THE    MAIDEN. 

for  while  most  of  the  young  girls  were  on  the 
floor,  threading  the  mazes  of  the  graceful  cotillion, 
he  was  in  some  corner,  in  grave  conversation 
with  their  mothers,  or  entertaining  some  neglected 
maiden,  whom  no  one  thought  it  worth  while  to 


take  as  a  partner. 


From  these  causes,  as  just  said,  he  was  not  a  (• 
general  favourite  with  young  ladies.  Their 
opinions  in  regard  to  him  were  various.  Some 
thought  him  dull  and  stupid  ;  while  others,  with 
whom  he  had  conversed  more  freely,  considered 
him  sensible  enough,  but  too  puritanical  in  his 
views  and  feelings;  others  again  said  that  they 
thought  they  could  like  him  very  well,  but  that 
they  never  could  get  near  him. 

Upon  the  whole,  although  no  one  could  allege         \ 
any  moral  defect  against  Hartley,  there  were  very 
few  of  the  younger  members  of  the  social  circle 
who  cared  to  be  very  gracious  towards  him,  or 
who  did  not  feel  under  constraint  when  by  his  side. 

Anna   Lee   first  met  him,  after  he  had  been 
going  into  company  for  a  year  or  two.     He  was 
then  a  member  of  the  house  in  which  he  had 
}  served  his  time.     From  the  moment  he  saw  her 

Hartley  liked  Anna;  but  she  was  so  general  a 


favourite,  that  it  was  a  rare  thing,  indeed,  that  he 
could  get  by  her  side;  and  when  he  did,  she 


j  A  NEW  LOVER.  121 

,  always  showed  a  reserve  that,  acting  upon  his 
feelings,  already  prepossessed  in  her  favour,  closed 
up  his  mental  perceptions,  and  caused  him  to  ap 
pear  to  very  poor  advantage.  Of  this  he  was 

,         clearly  conscious. 

From  the  first  he  had  found  no  difficulty  in  ma 
king  the  acquaintance  of  Florence  Annitage.  She 

1  fluttered  through  the  whole  circle  of  young  men, 
and  had  a  word  with  all.  Her  policy,  as  well  <M 
her  feelings,  caused  her,  to  use  her  own  words  on 
a  certain  occasion,  to  make  herself  agreeable  to 
the  beaux.  Her  frank,  easy  manner  pleased 
Hartley  at  first.  She  was  kinder  and  more  affable 

<!  towards  him  than  any  young  lady  he  had  met,  and 
often  came  to  his  aid  in  comparfy,  when,  from 
backwardness,  he  was  losing  all  of  its  true  enjoy 
ment.  For  a. time,  Hartley  liked  Florence  very 
well.  But  a  close  observation  of  her  character, 
revealed  in  it  very  glaring  defects.  Her  efforts 

ij         U)  induce  him  to  ask  her  to  go  to  the  theatre  when 

$  Fanny  Ellsler  danced,  efforts  that  could  not  be 
misunderstood,  first  took  the  scales  from  his  eyes. 
When  he  heard  that  she  had  been  seen  there  in  { 
company  with  Archer,  whose  principles  and  con 
duct  he  utterly  detested,  he  shrunk  from  her 
instinctively.  When  he  met  her,  he  treated  her 

11  J 


122  THE   MAIDEN. 

with  politeness,  but  took  no  pleasure  in  her  com 
pany. 

Gradually,  as  he  met  Anna  Lee  again  and  again 
in  company,  Hartley  saw  more  and  more  of  the 
Deautiful  order  and  purity  of  her  character.  From 
pleasure  experienced  in  the  observation  of  these, 
admiration  soon  arose  in  his  mind ;  and  this,  im 
perceptibly,  as  one  moral  beauty  after  another 
unfolded  itself  to  his  eyes,  deepened  into  a  feeling 
of  earnest  regard.  At  this  time,  he  was  concerned 
to  observe  that  Herbert  Gardiner,  whom  he  well 
knew,  was  beginning  to  be  very  marked  in  his 
attentions  towards  Anna ;  and  he  was  still  more 
concerned  to  see  that  his  attentions  were  not 
apparently  disagreeable. 

Coolly,  and  with  more  philosophy  than  is  ordi 
narily  to  be  found  in  young  men,  Hartley  held 
himself  aloof,  and  looked  on  to  see  the  result. 

"  What  a  fool !"  he  heard  a  young  friend  say, 
as  he  came  up  and  joined  a  group  of  acquaintances 
who  were  standing  at  the  entrance  of  a  neighbour*! 
store,  one  day  not  long  after  he  had  marked  the 
advances  of  Gardiner. 

"Who's  a  fool?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  that  pretty  daughter  of  LeeV 

"What  Lee ?» 

"President  of  Insurance  Company,* 


A  NEW   LOVER.  123 

M  Pray  what  has  she  been  doing  V9 

"A  silly  thing  that  she  will  repent  of  before 
•ho  dies,"  was  the  reply  of  one.  "  She  has  given 
our  friend  Gardiner,  across  the  street,  the  mitten 


to  hold." 


J  "What!" 

"It  is  said  she  has  declined  an  offer,  made  her  by 
Herbert  Gardiner.  What  do  you  think  of  that . 
Isn't  she  particular?  No  doubt  she  will  take  a 
drayman  before  she  dies,  and  be  glad  to  get  him." 

"  Why  did  she  decline  him  ?» 

"  Some  girlish  whim,  I  suppose.  Or,  perhaps, 
;j  some  apprentice  boy  has  already  stolen  away  her 
neart." 

"  She  didn't  like  his  character,  it  is  said,"  re 
marked  one. 

"  What  does  she  know  about  that,  I  wonder  P1 
returned  another. 

"No,  it  v/asnt  that,"  was  added  by  a  third. 
s  "I  am  told  that  she  pretended  to  have  a  percep 
tion  of  his  moral  quality  when  he  came  near  her, 
which  she  pronounced  impure." 

"Not  far  out  of  the  way,"  smilingly  replied 
Hartley. 

"  It  >s  coming  to  a  pretty  pass,  I  think,"  said  the 
other,  "when  young  girls  set  themselves  up  to 
pronounce  upon  the  quality  of  young  men's  mo- 

i.  :  j 


124  THE    MAIDEN. 

rals,  merely  by  the  impression  their  sphere,  as  I 
believe  it  is  called,  makes  upon  her.  A  man 
might  as  well  have  a  window  in  his  breast." 

"All  fal-lal !"  ejaculated  one  of  the  party 
turning  on  his  heel,  and  going  off. 

The  little  group  separated  at  this,  and  Hartley 

;•         went  to  his  own  store.      The  fact  he  had  heard 

thrilled  him  with  pleasure,  and  gave  to  Anna  Lee, 

m  his  mind,  a  far  more  elevated  position  than  she 

;>         had  before  held. 

About  a  month  afterwards,  during  which  time 

he  had  not  once  met  Anna,  he  heard  of  her  refusal 

to  receive  a  call  from  Archer.     Various  reasons 

were  assigned  for  this,  but  he  was  very  sure  that 

j         he  understood  the  true  one. 

"  Noble  girl !"  he  said  to  himself.  «  Oh,  that 
every  honest  woman  would  stamp,  as  you  have 
done,  the  seal  of  displeasure  upon  vice !" 

Firm  and  consistent  in  his  own  conduct,  and  ever  .  £ 
acting  from  principles  of  right,  settled  as  truths 
in  his  own  rational  mind,  James  Hartley  was  an 
admirer  in  all  of  firmness  and  consistency;  but 
\  how  much  more  an  admirer  of  them  in  one  whom 
bis  heart  had  already  begun  to  love!  Gardiner 
mit  of  the  way — and  Archer's  visit  declined,  he 
began  to  think  of  approaching,  with  serous  intent, 
ib^  lovely  maiden  himself.  But,  no  sooner  did 


AN    IMPRESSION    MADE.  125 

he  begin  thus  to  think,  than  doubts  arose  in  his 
mind.  His  own  person  was  plain,  and  Anna  had 
$  declined  an  offer  from  one  who  was  generally  ad- 
\  raitted  to  be  one  of  the  most  fascinating  and  noble* 
looking  young  men  in  the  city.  He  had  not,  as  some 
others,  who  would  seek  her  favour,  those  gracej 
of  mind  which  are  so  beautiful  and  attractive.  He 
possessed  not  riches,  although  he  was  well  con 
nected  in  business.  His  family  was  obscure ;  in  jj 
fact,  unknown  in  the  city.  He  was,  himseh, 
modest  and  retiring,  and  could  not  go  forward 
and  extort  attention,  as  many  had  the  power  of 
doing.  I; 

These  thoughts  made  him  sad  with  feelings  of 
doubt  and  discouragement. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN     IMPRESSION     MADE. 


IT  must  not  be  supposed  that  Anna  Lee  could 
take  the  virtuous  stand  she  did  in  regard  to  young 
Archer,  without  feeling  some  disturbance  of  mind. 
She  was  not  perfect — far  from  it — she  was  only 
in  the  effort  to  become  so.  She  was  only  striving 
to  act  from  what  she  sav  to  be  true  principles. 
11* 


126  THE    MAIDEN. 

In  this  case,  she  believed  that  to  receive  the  visits 
of  a  man  like  William  Archer — a  man  who  had 
<;  been  guilty  of  inflicting  upon  more  than  one  of 

her  sex,  the  deepest  possible  wrong  —  a  wrong 
£  irreparable    either   in    this   or   the   next   world, 

<;  would    be    nothing   more    than   approving    and 

J  encouraging  that  wrong.     And  this  she  could  not 

in  conscience  do.    She,  therefore,  firmly  repulsed 
him.     Oh,  that  every  virtuous  maiden  would  thus 
turn  from  the  man  who  has  been  the  wronger  of 
her  sex,  let  him  approach  her  when  and  where 
he  will — in   the   social   circle,  in  the  crowded         J> 
drawing-room,  or  in  the  public  street!     She  need         J- 
not  do  this  with  a  parade  that  attracts  attention — 
£  but  only  shrink  from  him  as  the  sensitive  plant 

,j     v     shrinks  from  an  approaching  hand.   She  is  neither 
true  to  herself  nor  her  sex  if  she  does  not  do  so. 
"f          For  one,  the  writer  of  this  always  suspects  the 
purity  of  heart  of  that  woman  who  countenances 
s          or  receives  the  attentions  of  a  man  who  is  known 
as  the  betrayer  of  her  sex ! 

"  Have  I  not  done  right,  father  ?"  Anna  said, 
looking  up  earnestly  into  her  father's  face,  as  soon 
an  the  street  door  had  been  heard  to  close  heavily 
behind  the  disappointed  and  mortified  youn£  man. 
"  Yes,  dear,  perfectly  right,"  replied  Mr.  Lee. 
Anna's  eyes  fell  again  upon  the  page  of  th*  book 


AN   IMPRESSION    MADE.  12 

she  held  in  her  hand.  Neither  her  faiher  nor 
mother  made  any  further  remark ;  and  she, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  resumed  her 
pleasant  task  of  reading  aloud  to  them.  But  her 
voice  was  neither  so  clear  nor  calm  as  it  had 
been.  It  was  slightly  tremulous  and  husky. 
She  read  on,  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  shut  the  $ 

book,  and  left  the  room.  Ascending  to  her  own 
chamber,  and  closing  the  door  after  her,  she  sunk 
upon  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  and  lifted  up  her 
heart  in  earnest  prayer  to  be  guided  aright  in  all  ;j 

the   relations  of  life;  and  to  be   endowed. with  $ 

firmness  to  act  truly  her  part  as  a  woman.  < 

The  incident  that  had  just  transpired,  and  the 
position  she  had  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to  take,  had  jj 

disturbed  her  feelings.  But  now  she  felt  calmer, 
and  more  clearly  conscious  that  she  had  acted 
right. 

The  fact  that  Anna  had  refused  to  see,  even  in 
her  own  house,  the  young  man  who  had  called 
upon  her,  soon  became  known  and  talked  about 
A  few  silently  approved  her  conduct ;  but  many 
openly  censured  her,  and  some  even  permitted  *f 

themselves  to  draw  inferences  from  the  fact,  that 
reflected  upon  the  purity  of  her  character.  Oi  ] 

all  this,  however,  she  was  ignorant.  She  appeared 
as  usual,  in  company,  but  there  was  a  change  in 


i 

128  THE    MAIDEN. 

the  conduct  of  young  men  towards  her — that  is 
of  a  certain  class  of  young  men.     Those  who  .ed 
an  evil  life,  kept  to  some  extent  aloof.     They 
feared  to  approach  her  with  familiarity,  lest  they,          ; 
too,  should  be  made  to  feel  that  they  were  un-     m    ;> 
worthy. 

From  this  reason,  although  she  was  still  the          j» 
cynosure  of  every  eye,  many  a  gay  flutterer,  who 
had  before  flitted  around  her,  kept  at  a  distance, 
lest  his  wings  should  be  melted  by  a  too  near  ap-         !; 
proach.     All  this>>  favoured  our  friend  Hartley. 
Anna  was  more  accessible  to  him  in  company,          j 
for  she  was  not  so  frequently,  as  before,  the  part 
ner  of  some  gay  friend. 

The  more  intimately  Anna  knew  Hartley,  the  $ 
more  she  thought  about  him.  There  was  some- 
»hing,  to  her  eye,  beautiful  in  the  honest  simpli 
city  of  his  mind,  and  attractive  in  the  moral 
strength  of  his  character.  At  first  he  had  seemed 
a  common  man.  She  had  responded  to  his  atten 
tions,  whenever  she  was  thrown  into  his  company,  !; 
because  she  was  kind  to  all  who  were  worthy  of 
kindness  ;  but  as  she  met  him  oftener,  knew  him 
better,  and  marked  the  orderly  character  of  his 
mind,  and  the  healthy  tone  of  his  sentiments,  she 
;,  could  not  but  admire  him.  And  when  he  ven- 

5  tured  to  call  to  see  her  at  her  father's  house,  she 


AN    IMPRESSION   MADE.  129 

/received  his  visit  with  pleasure,  although  she  had 
not  the  most  distant  suspicion  that  his  call  was 
anything  more  than  a  friendly  visit. 

After  he  had  gone  away,  Anna  sunk  down  apon  ! 

the  sofa,  in  the  parlour,  alone,  and  fell  into  a 
dreamy,  musing  state  of  mind.  Many  images,  dim 
and  but  half  defined,  floated  before  her ;  and  min-  j 

gled  with  them  was  the  form  of  young  Hartley. 
She  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  remembered 
many  sentiments  he  had  uttered.  And  all  this  was 
pleasing  to  her. 

The  young  man  trode  the  pavement,  as  he  walked 
homeward,  with  light  footsteps,  and  a  lighter  heart. 
Anna  had  not  refused  to  see  him.  And  more  than 
that:  She  had  sung  and  played  for  him — the 
music  sounding  sweeter  to  his  ears  than  anything 
he  had  ever  heard  —  and  seemed  interested  in  all 
the  conversation  that  passed  between  them.  j| 

In  a  week  Hartley  called  again.  But  this  visit 
was  far  from  being  as  pleasant  as  the  first.  Anna  ;> 
seemed  reserved.  What  could  it  mean  ?  Had  she 
suspected  his  feelings  ?  And  did  she  mean  to  re 
pulse  him?  The  thought  embarrassed  him,  and 
made  their  intercourse,  during  the  hour  that  he 
stayed,  unsatisfactory  to  both. 

The  young  man  did  not  venture  upon  a  third 
viat.  He  was  afraid.  The  coldness  of  Anna, 


130  THE    MAIDEN 

was  evident  to  his  mind,  arose  from  a  dislike  to 
wards  him,  and  he  shrunk  from  the  direct  issu^ 
of  an  open  repulse. 

Two  months  passed,  and  not  once  during  thai 
time  had  Hartley  ventured  to  call  upon  the  maid 
en  who  was  in  all  his  waking  and  dreaming 
thoughts.  Two  or  three  times  he  had  met  her 
upon  the  street,  and,  although  she  had  spoken  to 
him,  there  was  something  shy  about  her — some 
thing  altogether  unusual  in  her  manner.  He  in 
terpreted  it  to  mean  a  dislike  for  him ;  but  he  was 
<|  a  young  man,  and  little  acquainted  with  the  lan 
guage  of  a  woman's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A     SAD     PICTURE. 


WHEN  it  became  known  to  Anna  Lee,  that  her 
young  friend,  Florence,  had  accepted  an  offer  of 
marriage  from  Archer,  her  heart  was  deeply 
troubled.  When  they  met,  and  Florence  delicately 
unfolded  the  truth  to  her,  the  words  Anna  spoke 
in  reply  seemed  as  if  they  would  choke  her. 
She  could  not  utter  congratulations,  and  she  felt 


n   SAD    PICTURE.  131 

that  she  had  now  no  right  to  object  to  the  young 
man's  character.  Florence  was  his  betrothed. 

"  f  have  a  particular  favour  to  ask  of  you, 
Anna,"  said  her  friend  j  "  and  I  am  sure  you  will 
not  refuse  me." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  will  be  one  of  my  bridemaids  ?" 

Anna's  eyes  fell  to  the  floor.  How  could  she 
refuse  her  friend's  request?  and  yet,  how  could 
she  grant  it?  After  thinking,  hurriedly,  for  a 
few  moments,  and  becoming  sensible  how  inti 
mately  such  a  service  to  her  friend  would  bring 
her  into  contact  with  a  man  from  whom  she 
shrunk  with  abhorrence,  and  who  could  not  but 


feel  angry  with  her,  she  looked  up  and  said, 


"I  am  sorry  to  refuse  you,  Florence,  but  it 
will  be  out  of  the  question.  I  cannot  act  as  your 
oridemaid." 

"Why?" 

Anna  was  again  silent.     What  could  she  say  ? 

"  You  must,  Anna ;  indeed  you  must,"  urged          < 
Florence. 

"No,  my  friend,  I  cannot  do  this,"  was  the 
maiden's  firm  answer.  £ 

"  It  is  because  you  don't  like  William,"  said 
Florence,  a  little  warmly,  her  cheek  reddening. 

Anna  did  not  reply. 


F 

132  THE   MAIDEN. 

"  Speak  out  the  plain  truth,  and  name  at  once 
your  reason.  Isn't  it  as  I  say  ?" 

"  Suppose  that  were  the  reason,  Florence,  why 
should  you  wish  to  know  it  ?" 


"Because  I  do."  Florence  was  losing  coin-  J 
mand  of  herself.  $ 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Anna,  with  earnest-  s 
ness,  "  do  not  let  a  little  thing  like  this  cause  ^ 
you  to  feel  unkindly  towards  one  who  has  a  warm  --J 
affection  for  you  ;-  towards  one  who  would  will-  <"; 
mgly  serve  you  in  every  possible  way."  •; 

"  It  is  not  impossible  for  you  to  do  what  I  have 
asked."     Florence  looked  into  Anna's  face  with         !; 
compressed  lips,  as  she  made  this  reply. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  anything  that  ] 
think  wrong." 

"  Wrong !    Wrong  to  be  my  bridemaid  !"   And         jj 
Florence  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  flushed  face. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  such  words  ?" 

"Enough  has  been  already  said,  Florence,"  J 
returned  the  maiden,  with  the  tears  starting  to 
her  eyes.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  a  reason 
for  declining  your  request.  Believe  me  that  it 
does  not  arise  from  any  indisposition  to  serve 
you." 

"It  is  ?>ec?use  you  do  not  like  Mi,  Arcner, 
then  *" 


A.   SAD   PICTURE.  133 

Anna  made  no  reply 

"  Anna,  I  must  and  will  have  the  truth  .  Tell 
me  at  once  if  that  is  your  reason  ?"  Florence 
epoke  in  an  agitated  manner. 

"I  cannot  withhold  my  reason,  if  you  insist 
upon  knowing  it." 
"  I  do  insist." 

"  You  have  supposed  truly." 
"  You  don't  like  Mr.  Archer." 

<!  "  No,  Florence,  I  don't.   This  you  have  always 

j|          known.     And  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  com- 
ji          pelled  to  refuse  your  request." 
J;  "  How  can  you  be  my  friend,  and  not  the 

friend  of  my  husband?'  Florence  had  a  stern 
look,  as  she  asked  this  question,  and  then  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"  It  must  be  as  you  say,  Florence,"  was  Anna's 
calm  reply,  although  the  tears  were  stealing  from 
beneath  her  half-closed  lashes.  "I  wish  to  be  j; 
your  friend  —  I  love  you  as  a  sister  ;  or,  rather,  let 
me  say,  as  a  wayward  sister,  whom  I  would  fain 
j  lead  by  better  counsels  than  those  she  is  following. 


The  man  you  are  about  to  marry,  you  well  know, 


;J          I  do  not  like,  and  that  I  have  good  reasons  for  my 

feeling.     I  do  not  think  he  will  ever  make  you          ^ 
happy.    I  wish,  from  my  heart,  you  had  declined 
his  offer." 
12 


134  THE   MAIDEN 


pronounced  the  words  "sister,"  and  "wayward 
sister,"  caused  the  heart  of  Florence  to  tremole. 
Her  momentarily  excited  anger  subsided.  She 
looked  at  the  sweet,  anxious  face  of  her  friend, 
and  at  the  tears  that  were  glistening  on  her 
cheeks.  The  appeal  to  all  that  was  of  the  woman 
in  her  was  too  strong,  and  she  rushed  into  the 
arms  of  Anna,  and  sank  sobbing  upon  her  bosom. 
"  0,  my  dear,  good  friend  !"  she  murmured,  as 
soon  as  her  emotion  had  in  some  deree  subsided. 


The  exceeding  tenderness  of  Anna's  voice,  as  it 


"  I  wish  that  I  had  your  firm  heart  that  beats  so         | 
truly  and  warmly  in  the  right  place.   I  wish  that,         | 
like  you,  I  were  free  from  weakness.     That  I         J 
I;          could  always  do  what  my  judgment  dictates.     I 
was  angry  with  you  but  a  moment  since  ;  no  — 
no  —  Florence  was  not  angry,  it  was  her  pride        \ 
tnat  was  angry.     She  loves  you  as  truly  and  as         \ 
tenderly  as  she  has  ever  loved  you  ;  and  may  that         j 
love  never  grow  cold  !    But  can  you,  will  you  still 
love  me,  and  seek  to  guide  my  young  heart  as  you 
have  hitherto  sought,  but  with  so  little  apparent 
effect  ?     I  shall  need  your  counsel  —  I  shall  need 
just  such  a  friend.     For  in  all  soberness,  Anna,  1 
do  not  feel  that  I  have  done  right  in  accepting  an 
offer  of  marriage  from  William  Archer.    I  do  not 
believe  that  he  will  ever  make  me  happy." 


A   SAD    PICTURE. 

Anna  shuddered,  when  her  friend  said  this  in  a 
voice  that  was  sadder  than  anything  she  had  foi 
a  long  time  heard. 

"  0  Florence  !"  And  now  Anna's  tears  gushed 
freely.  "Why  did  you  not  pause  and  think 

§          before  you  took  this  fatal  step  ?     Why  did  you 

$  not  pray  to  Heaven  for  direction,  before  you 
spoke  that  one  little  word  that  involves  the 
happiness  and  misery  of  a  whole  lifetime — nay, 
my  dear  friend,  of  a  whole  eternity  ? 

j;  "Because  I  was  mad.     But  is  not  this  worse 

than  madness,  Anna?    I  have  consented  to  be 
come   his   bride.      The   day  is   appointed,   and, 

'.;          before  three  weeks  have  passed  away,  I  shall  oe 

a  wife.     I  dare  not  say  a  happy  wife.     But  I          £ 

I         must  strive  to  be  all  to  him  that  a  wife  should  be."          j« 
"That  is  your  duty,  Florence.     And  if  you          ^ 

/         will  only  strive  to  do  a  wife's  pan,  looking  up 

I  for  assistance  in  all  your  duties,  and  for  guidance 
in  every  trying  circumstance,  your  marriage  with 
William  Archer,  although  in  the  nature  of  things 
it  cannot,  at  first,  be  a  very  happy  one,  may  be 
the  means  of  elevating  and  perfecting  your  cha 
racter.  And  still  more,  of  elevating  and  refining 
the  character  of  your  husband.  Although  the 
ordeal  may  be  to  you  a  fiery  one,  it  may  prove  in 


<!  $ 

136  THE    MAIDEN. 

the  hands  of  Providence  the  means  of  accomplish 
ing  a  great  good."  j 

"  God  grant  that  it  may  be  so,"  murmured  Flo 
rence. 

A  responsive  "  Amen,"  was  all  the  sound  that 
broke  upon  the  air,  and  then  a  deep,  deep  silence 
followed. 

From  that    time,   Florence   Armitage  was   a 
changed  being.    She  had  felt  all  she  had  expressed 
to  Anna,  over  and  over  again,  in  the  short  space         < 
that  had  elapsed  since  her  engagement  to  Archer : 
but  the  expression  of  her  feelings  gave  them  a         «; 
fixedness  and  power.     They  now  influenced  her 
external    acts,   and   were   seen    in    the   change 
wrought  in  her  countenance  and  manner.     Her         ; 
observation  had  become  more  acute,  and  her  feel 
ings  more  truly  impressible.     She  saw  more  dis 
tinctly  than  she  had  before  seen,  the  true  character 
of  Archer,  and  how  little  there  was  in  it  for  a         ^ 
woman  to  love.    She  saw  that  he  was  selfish,  had 
a  violent  temper,  and  was  willing  to   sacrifice 
anything  so  that  his  own  wishes  might  be  grati 
fied. 

But  what  could  she  do  ?  She  had  consented  to 
become  his  wife  Had  entered  into  a  solemn  con 
tract  with  him  and  she  felt  that  she  dared  not 
violate  it. 


t'\V"l-^U'\.-\-'\. 


I 

\  CHAPTER  XVI. 

AN   EXCITING   CIRCUMSTANCE, 

\  DURING  the  next  three  weeks,  Florence  WM 

\         unhappy.     She  dreaded,  almost  like  the  approach 

of  death,  her  wedding-day.     The  more  intimate 

ghe  became  in  her  association  with  the  man  she 


had  promised  to  marry,  the  stronger  was  her  re 
pugnance  to  the  union.  She  was  much  with 
Anna  during  that  time,  who  strove  all  that  was  in 
her  power,  to  cause  her  friend  to  look  up  for 
light.  Anna  did  not  feel  that  she  ought  to  en- 
£  courage  Florence  to  break  her  contract  with 
Archer.  Had  she  done  so,  Florence  would  not 
long  have  hesitated;  for  she  did  not  as  yet  see 
principles  of  action  clearly  in  the  light  of  her 
own  mind,  and  therefore  was  easily  led  by  others, 
when  their  advice  favoured  her  own  inclinations. 
Archer  himself  saw  that  Florence  was  changed, 
and  he  half  suspected  the  cause.  This  made  him 
more  attentive,  and  more  careful  to  study  the  in 
clinations  of  his  betrothed.  But  enough  of  his 
eal  character  was  constantly  showing  itself,  to 

12*  ,137) 


138  THE    MAIDEN. 

sadden  the  heart  of  Florence,  at  the  thought  of 
becoming  his  bride.  The  recollection,  too,  of  a 
young  school-mate,  to  whom  she  had  been  at 
tached,  and  who  had  been  drawn  from  the  path 
of  virtue  two  years  before,  by  Archer,  and  ban 
ished  from  virtuous  society,  was  constantly  in  her 
mind.  All  through  the  day  the  image  of  that 
irvveet-faced  girl  would  be  before  her ;  and  she 
would  often  dream  of  her  at  night. 

By  the  time  her  wedding-day  arrived,  she  had, 
instead  of  a  pure  love,  a  deep  aversion  for  the 
man  she  had  consented  to  marry.  Nevertheless, 
all  the  preparations  went  on.  A  large  company 
was  invited  to  grace  the  nuptial  ceremonies,  and 
jj  they  assembled  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Armitage  ac 
cording  to  appointment.  Anna  Lee,  though  still 
firmly  declining  to  act  as  one  of  the  bridemaids, 
was  with  her  friend  in  her  chamber  as  the  hour 
approached,  assisting  to  dress  her  for  the  occasion. 

Poor  Florence  felt  wretched.  But  there  seemed 
no  way  of  escape.  She  had  accepted  the  young 
man's  offer.  There  had  been  a  solemn  contract, 
and  she  did  not  see  how  she  could  break  it ;  par 
ticularly,  as  she  knew  just  as  much  of  the  young 
man's  character,  as  a  betrayer  of  innocence,  before, 
as  since,  she  had  agreed  to  marry  him. 

All  the  preparations  were   completed,  and  in 


_j 


;  AN   EXCITING    CIRCUMSTANCE.  139 

j;         half  an  hour  Florence  would  have  to  stand  at  the 

<j  marriage  altar,  and  pledge  her  faith  to  a  man  for 
whom  she  felt  a  strong  internal  repugnance — to 
a  man  who  could  not  make  her  happy.  She  de- 
fired  to  be  left  alone  with  Anna  during  the  time 
that  remained,  and  all  retired  from  her  chamber 

$  but  the  true-hearted  maiden.  For  ten  minutes 
not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either.  Then  the 

*t  silence  was  broken  by  a  violent  fit  of  weeping. 
Florence  was  not  able  to  control  her  feelings. 

s  Anna  tenderly  soothed  and   encouraged   her, 

;j         until  she  grew  externally  calm. 

"Ah,  my  dear  friend!"  said  Florence,  when 

>  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak,  "you  cannot 
know  the  dreadful  feelings  I  have.  I  think  I 
could  meet  death  with  calmness;  but  from  this 
union  I  shrink  with  a  most  intolerable  anguish  of 
mind.  Last  night  I  dreamed,  for,  it  seems,  the 
twentieth  time,  that  Grace  Leary  came  to  see  me 
— you  remember  sweet  little  Grace.  I  thought 
I  was  sitting  just  here,  and  she  opened  that  door, 
and  came  in  w'th  a  quiet  step.  She  had  on  a 
g\y  dress,  much  worn  and  soiled,  and  a  bonnet 
full  of  bright  flowers,  that  were  drooping  and 
faded.  All  her  beauty  was  gone ;  and,  instead  of 
the  soft  light  of  her  sweet  blue  eyes,  that  we  all 
used  so  to  admire,  her  glance  had  in  it  a  fierce, 


r 

140  THE    MAIDEN. 

demoniac  fire.     She  came  close  up  to  me,  ana 
stood  and  lookec  me  fixedly  in  the  face.     I  could         J 
neither  move  nor  speak.    Gradually  the  whole 
expressi  an  of  her  face  changed.     Her  eyes  grew         !> 
mild  as  heaven's  soft  azure,  her  cheeks  rounded 
into  the  contour  of  health,  and  the  rose  blushed  in 
them.     The   tawdry   finery   in   which   she   was 
dressed  changed  into  garments  of  snowy  white,      •'.  | 
and  she  stood  smiling  upon  me,  the  lovely  Grace 
£  Leary  of  other  days !  I  started  forward  to  embrace 

her,  but  she  stepped  back,  changed  instantly  to 
her  former  appearance ;  and  pointing  to  a  corner 
of  the  room,  said  sternly — 

" «  For  this,  he  is  guilty !' 

"I  looked,  and  there  stood  William  Archer, 
I  was  wide  awake  in  an  instant.  Oh,  Anna! 
where,  and  what  is  Grace  Leary  now  ?  The  man 
I  am  about  to  marry,  betrayed  her ;  and  she  is,  if 
still  alive,  a  wretched  outcast.  That  dream  I  feel 
to  be  true — alas!  too  true !  And  may  it  not  be 
sent  as  a  warning  ?  Is  it  not  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
calling  upon  me  to  pause "?  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
think  so,  I  would  stop  even  here,  and  start 
back,  from  what  seems  inevitable  ruin.  There  is 
nothing  that  I  would  not  do,  rather  than  advance 
a  single  step  further  Anna'  dear  Anna!  You 


AN    EXCITING    CIRCUMSTANCE.  143 

tre  wiser  and  better  than  I  am ;  tell  me  what  1 
should  do." 

Before  Anna  Lee  could  frame  her  thoughts  into 


<!        a  reply,  the  door  opened,  and  a  stranger,  closely 

veiled,  came  in,  and  advanced  towards  the  two 

J        young  friends.     Both  rose  to  their  feet,  in  instant 

surprise.     The  intruder  was  small  in  stature,  and  «! 

«;  delicately  formed.  Her  dress  was  of  rich  ma- 
<  terial,  but  much  defaced ;  and  her  whole  appear- 
J  ance  that  of  one  who  had  experienced  some  sad 
\  change  of  fortune.  For  nearly  a  minute  jhe  stood 
J  before  the  astonished  inmates  of  the  room,  with 
!j  her  head  bent  towards  the  floor,  and  her  breast 
labouring  heavily.  At  last  she  slowly  drew  aside 
£  the  thick  veil  that  concealed  her  face.  It  was  a  J 

young,  young  face,  but  sadly  marred.    There  was 

jj        a  broad  white  brow,  and  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes, 

sunken  far  back  in  their  sockets — delicately-formed 

lips,  and,  indeed,  a  whole   countenance  of  the 

softest  feminine  mould.     But  the  face  was  pale 

and  sad,  and  had  upon  it  many  a  line,  not  written 

\        there  by  Virtue's  finger. 

"  You  do  not  know  me,"  the  stranger  said,  in  a 
low,  tremulous  voice,  breaking  the  oppressive 
rilence. 

That  voice  stirred  a  thousand  old  memories  in 
the  hearts  of  botlr  Florence  and  Anna. 


J 


(  /.42  THE   MAIDEN. 

"  It  is>  no  wonder,"  she  added,  in  a  sadder  tone, 
jj  "I  have  changed  since  we  played  together  as 

children." 

"Grace!  Grace  Leary!  Can  it  be  possible!" 
exclaimed  Anna,  starting  forward.  But  the  stran 
ger  shrunk  away,  saying, 

"No — no — Anna  Lee:    I  will  not  let  your       | 
pure  hand  touch   one   so  polluted  as  mine.     I        ^ 
have  come  here  to  perform  one  good  act,  among 
my  thousand   evil  ones.     This   is  the  wedding- 
night  of  Florence  Armitage.     I  have  dreamed  of 
her  for  weeks  past ;  and  now,  impelled  by  some- 
£  thing  I  cannot  resist,  I  have  come  to  warn  her        j 

against  the  man  to  whom  she  is  about  to  be  united.        j; 
s  He  lured  me,  with  false  promises  of  marriage,        f 

from  the  path  of  virtue,  and  then  corrupted  me 
more  and  more,  and  pressed  me  down  lower  and 
lower,  until  I  am  what  you  see,  one  of  society's 
vilest  outcasts." 

"  Florence !"  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 

young  creature  who  stood  trembling  before  her, 

\  all  decked  out  in  her  bridal  robes — "Pause  — 

£  think — start  back!  If  you  advance  a  single  step, 

I  you  will  be  wretched  for  life.     I  have  a  right  to 

know  the  man  you  are  about  to  marry, — I  do 

«>  know  him,  far  better  than  you  possibly  can ;  and 

ff     .      I  know  him  to  be   corrupt,  debased,  unprinci- 


AN   EXCITING    CIRCUMSTANCE. 


143 


pled.  I  hold  his  promise  of  marriage ;  a  promise 
by  which  he  enticed  me  from  the  right  path ;  and 
while  that  promise  stands,  he  has  no  right  to  wed 
another.  He  can  never  be  truly  your  husband, 
while  he  is  pledged  to  me." 

At  that  moment  the  door  again  opened,  and 
Archer  himself,  accompanied  by  the  mother  oi 
Anna,  and  the  bridemaids,  entered.  It  was  tht 
hour  for  the  ceremony  to  begin. 

"Aha!"  half  shrieked  the  wretched  creature 
as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  young  man  himself 
who  stepped  back  in  amazement  and  alarm.  Thei 
raising  her  finger,  and  stretching  up  her  slendei 
form  to  its  utmost  height,  she  said,  in  a  calm,  clear 
voice  — 

"  Base  betrayer  of  innocence !  Behold  one  of 
your  victims !  There  is  an  unmarked  grave,  in  a 
lonely  spot  near  the  city.  Do  you  know  who 
sleeps  there!  Flora  Lyons!"  This  name  was 
uttered  mournfully ;  at  its  sound,  both  Anna  and 
Florence  started,  and  grew  pale.  The  excited  girl 
went  on, — "  I  was  with  her  on  the  night  in  which 
she  died — alone  with  her.  Oh,  it  was  a  dreadful 
night!  She  cursed  you  with  her  latest  breath, 
and  well  she  might — you  were  her  murderer — 
yes,  worse  than  her  murderer ;  for  you  killed  both 
body  and  soul.  And  now,  after  all  this,  fhe  wolf 


144  THE   MAIDEN.  jj 

•s  seeking  to  consort  with  the  lamb.    But  it  shall        j; 
not  be !" 

The  strong  excitement  of  the  girl's  feelings  over 
came  her.     As  she  uttered  the  last  words,  her  ex 
tended   arm   fell,   her   head   drooped   upon   her        | 
bosom,  and  she  would  have  fallen  forward  upon 
the  floor,  had  not  the  mother  of  Florence  caught        j 
her  in  her  arms.    When  the  confusion  that  fol 
lowed  had  subsided,  William  Archer  was  not  to        j> 
be  seen.     He  had  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

"  Thank  God !  I  am  saved,"  murmured  Flo-  | 
rence,  as  soon  as  her  bewildered  mind  grew  calm,  ; 
throwing  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  Anna  as  ;> 
she  spoke.  They  were  again  alone,  after  having  ; 
seen  poor  Grace  Leary,  still  insensible,  laid  in 
bed,  and  properly  attended  to. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Florence !  you  are  safe.    And        j 
may  the  Being  you  have  so  fervently  thanked  for 
'  his  kind,  preserving  care,  keep  you  ever  under        4 
the  shadow  of  His  wings.     Look  up  to  Him,  and 
you  need  fear  no  danger.     He  will  be  a  light  to        <; 
your  feet,  and  guide  you  safely  through  the  moit 
dark  and  difficult  parts  of  life's  journey." 

"I  will  look  to  Him-  I  will  trust  in  him," 
murmured  the  thankful   girl,  drawing  her  arm        J 
tightly  about  the  neck  of  her  friend. 

Of  the  surprise  and  confusion  that  took  place        \ 


WOOED  AND  WON.  145 

when  it  was  announced  to  the  company  that  the 
wedding  would  not  take  place,  nothing  need  be 
said.  Of  course  there  was  much  embarrassment 
—  many  exclamations,  and  a  hundred  and  one 
conjectures  as  to  the  real  cause.  All  was  in  dje 
time  explained  and  understood ;  and  all  felt  glad 
that  Florence  had  escaped  a  life  of  wretchedness. 


CHAPTER  XVII.  J 

WOOED     AND    WON. 

A  FEW  evenings  after  the  events  which  trans* 
pired  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Armitage,  as  just 
described,  had  taken  place,  Hartley,  who  could 
not  erase  the  image  of  Anna  Lee  from  his  mind, 


determined,  in  a  moment  of  half-desperation,  to 
call  upon  her  once  more. 

"  If  she  dislikes  me,  I  will  see  it,  and  I  want 
•ome  ceitainty,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Under  this  feeling,  he  visited  her. 

"Mr.  Hartley   is    in    the    parlour,"    said    m 
domestic,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
where  Anna  was  sitting  with  her  parents. 
13 


1*6  THT    IAIDEN. 

Mr.  Lee  looked  into  the  face  of  his  daughter, 
and  saw  that  the  announcement  had  disturbed  tLi 
quiet  tone  of  her  feelings.  But  whether  the  effect 
were  pleasing,  or  otherwise,  he  could  not  tell. 

"  Tell  him  I  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes, ' 
Anna  said,  rising.  She  took  a  light  and  went  ti 
her  own  room,  where  she  re-arranged  her  hair, 
put  on  a  collar,  and  made  some  trifling  alterations 
in  her  dress.  She  lingered  a  few  minutes  after 
this,  to  give  her  feelings,  that  were  more  than 
ordinarily  ruffled,  time  to  calm  down.  Then  she 
descended  to  the  parlour. 

Hartley  had  been  waiting  for  her  in  a  state 
of  nervous  uncertainty.  Upon  the  character 
of  her  reception  of  his  visit,  hung  all  his  hopes. 
If  she  smiled  upon  him,  he  would  be  the  hap 
piest  man  in  existence;  if  she  repulsed  him  by 
her  manner,  he  would  be  the  most  miserable. 
He  was  in  this  state  of  mind,  when  Anna  came 
in,  and  advancing  towards  him,  offered  her  hand  j; 
with  a  graceful  ease,  and  a  manner  so  frank  ancl 
warm,  that  the  young  man  took  instant  courage 
In  a  little  while  they  were  conversing  together 
perfectly  at  ease,  and  each  interested  in  and 
silently  approving  the  sentiments  uttered  by  the 
other.  When  they  separated,  both  felt  happier 
than  they  had  been  for  weeks.  "Why  it  was  so 


WOOED   AND   WON.  14 

with  Annav  she  hardly  dared  acknowledge  to  her 
self.  To  Hart]  ey,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
.  the  matter  was  plain  as  daylight.  He  did  not 
suffer  many  days  to  elapse,  before  calling  again 
To  his  great  delight,  he  was  received  as  kindly 
83  before;  and  even  half-blind  as  he  was  from 
over  modesty  an<Abashfumess,  could  see  that 
there  was  something  warmer  in  the  face  and 
eyes  of  the  maiden,  than  expressed  an  ordinary 

j;  friendly  feeling  towards  an  acquaintance.  He 
now  visited  Anna  regularly,  and  was  ever  a  wel 
come  guest. 

;>  On  one  occasion,  after  Hartley  had  paid  close 

attention  to  her  for  two  or  three  months,  there 
was  a  freer  exchange  of  sentiments,  and  the  con 
versation  was  upon  subjects  that  brought  out  from 

!>  both  an  expression  of  the  leading  principles  that 
ought  to  govern  in  the  common  affairs  of  life. 
Hartley  was  pleased  to  find  that  Anna  had  sound 
views  upon  all  the  questions  that  came  up ;  and 
she  was  no  less  gratified  to  perceive  in  him,  as 
she  had  often  before  perceived,  a  basis  of  good 
•ense,  a  clearly  discriminating  mind,  and  a  love 
of  truth  for  its  own  sake.  They  had  been  speak* 
ing  of  the  beauty  of  moral  excellence,  when  Anna 
remarked,  and  she  Jid  so  to  see  how  far  bis  prin 
ciples  led  him,  • 


148  THE   MAIDEN. 

"But  to  come  to  the  real  truth  at  last,  Mr 
Hartley,  moral  excellence  is  nothing,  if  the  seal 
of  religion  be  wanting." 

Hartley  looked  at  the  maiden,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  In  fact,"  she  resumed,  "  unless  all  our  actions 
are  regulated  by  Divine  laws,  our  morality  has 
but  a  slender  base  to  stand  upon — is,  in  fact, 
only  an  assumed  and  not  a  real  morality,  and 
when  the  storms  of  temptations  arise,  and  the  J 
floods  beat  against  it,  it  will  fall." 

He  still  remained  a  silent,  but  admiring  listener  j          )• 
and  she  went  on. 

"A  man  may  render  civil  obligations  to  his 


country,  because  his  interest  is  involved  in  doing 
so ;  and  he  may  act  in  all  the  varied  relations  of 
life  with  external  faultlessness,  and  yet  not  be  in 
heart  a  moral  man,  or  a  good  citizen.  He  may  ? 
obey  the  laws,  because  he  thereby  secures  his 
own  good ;  and  he  may  be  hospitable  and  kind,  '«! 
and  generous  from  a  love  of  the  world's  good 
opinion.  But,  if  he  could  believe  that  it  would 
be  more  to  his  interest  to  violate  the  law,  what 
would  hold  him  in  obedience  to  the  law  ?  Or,  if 
he  were  placed  in  circumstances  where  he  could 
not  forfeit  or  gain  the  world's  good  opinion, 
would  he  be  generous  and  hospitable  ?  But,  if  he 
is  a  good  citizen,  and  a  moral  man  from  a  rel  - 


WOOED   AND   WON.  149 

gious  principle — that  is,  because  civil  laws  and 
moral  laws  are  at  the  same  time  Divine  laws,  can 
even  he  be  tempted  to  breaK  them  ?  No.  He 
only,  therefore,  who  is  governed  by  religious 
principles,  is,  in  reality  a  good  citizen,  or  a  truly 
moral  man.  Is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Hartley  ?" 

66  Doubtless,  all  you  have  said  is  true,"  returned 
the  young  man.  "But  who  around  us  is  thus 
governed  by  religious  principles  V9 

"  Many,  I  hope." 

"  Can  you  name  one  ?" 

The  maiden's  cheek  became  slightly  sufFuseo, 
as  she  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 

"  Yes;  one,  at  least." 

"  Who  is  it." 

"  My  father.  And  it  is  to  him  I  am  indebted  ;< 
for  the  light  that  my  own  mind  has  received  on  *j 
so  important  a  subject." 

"  Do  you  not  know  another  ?w 

"  I  do.  My  mother  acts  from  the  same  high 
obligations." 

"  And  you  do  the  same  ?" 

Hartley  looked  earnestly  into  his  companion's          s' 
face,  as  he  said  this,  that  not  a  single  varying 
ghade  of  its  exprsssion  might  be  lost. 

"I  try  to  do  so,"  was  the  modestly  spoken 
answer;  "but  I  am  conscious,  every  day,  that  my 
13* 


150  THE   MAIDEN. 

cj  efforts  are  altogether  imperfect.  That  my  cha 
racter  is  not  yet  based  upon  an  ever-abiding  love 
of  the  truth  for  its  own  sake." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  Hartley  re 
turned,  with  a  smile. 

"  Glad  ?'    And  Anna  looked  at  the  young  man 
;>          with  surprise. 

"Yes,  glad.  Like  you,  I  am  struggling  to 
make  the  laws  of  moral  and  civil  life,  one  with 
the  laws  of  Divide  order;  but  my  efforts  are 
imperfect,  and  my  progress  very  slow.  Some 
times  I  seem  not  to  advance  at  all.  Is  not  that 
your  own  experience  ?" 

"  It  is ;  and  I  sometimes  fear  will  ever  be.    If 
I  advance  at  all,  my  progress  is  so  slow  that  I  do         5 
not  perceive  it.     But  why  should  you  be  glad  at 
my  imperfections  ?" 

Hartley  ventured  to  take  her  hand.  She  yielded 
it  passively.  Looking  steadily  into  her  mild,  blue 
eyes,  he  said, — 

"  Because  I  feared  that  you  were  perfect  j  and 
if  so,  I  should  have  been  without  hope." 

The  eyes  of  the  maiden  fell  suddenly.  A 
ourning  blush  covered  her  whole  face,  yet  she  did 
not  withdraw  the  hand  that  was  held  by  her  com 
panion. 


WOOED   AND  WON.  Ill 

'*,  "But,  like  myself,  you  are  conscious  of  imper- 

5         factions — conscious  of  weakness  and  evil,  and,  like 
myself,  are  struggling  to  rise  aDove  them,"  con 
tinued   Hartley,   tightening   his   hold   upon   the 
small,  soft   hand,  that  lay  so  passively  in   his. 
"  Shall  we  not  help  each  other  to  rise  into  a 
higher  and  better  life?     Shall  we  not,  together, 
£         struggle  with  temptation,  and  together  find  a  Sab- 
j         bath  rest,  when  we  have  conquered  ?" 

Anna  could  not  reply.      But  her  heart  was 

fluttering  with  joy.     She  could  only  let  her  hand 

remain  in  that  of  her  lover;  and  she  did  let  it 

\         remain,  and  even  returned  his  tight  clasp  with  a 

gentle  pressure. 

When  Hartley  passed  from  the  door  of  Mr. 
Lee's   dwelling,    he   was   bewilderingly   happy. 
Anna  had  consented,  with  her  parent's  approba- 
cj         'on,  to  accept  his  hand  "n  marriage. 


t 


A.-wvu'-Vw 


CHAPTER  XVHL 

YOUTH   AND   BEAUTY  IN   RTJIN8. 

DURING  the  time  that  James  Hartley  was  visiting 
Anna,  Mr.  Lee  had  made  very  close  inquiries 
into  his  character  and  habits  of  life.  All  that  he 

heard  was  favourable.     At  first,  even  with  those      •  5 
y  .' 

I  favourable  testimonials  in  regard  to  the  young 

,J  nan,  Mr.  Lee  did  not  feel  satisfied  altogether,         £ 

with  his  attentions  to  Anna.     As  the  reader  has         $ 
seen,  with  all  his  good  sense,  the  father  had  his         ^ 
weaknesses.     He  was  proud  of  his  lovely  child, 
and  could  not  help  wishing  to  see  her  the  chosen         \ 

$  bride,  when  chosen  at  all,  of  one  who  stood  forth 

from  the  mass,  distinguished  in  some  way ;  either 
as  a  man  of  wealth  and  rank,  or  with  a  brilliant 
reputation  in  some  profession. 

But  the  lesson  he  had  received  in  the  case  of 
Gardiner  was  a  salutary  one  —  it  rebuked  his  fond 
pride,  and  made  him  wi^irc  to  consent  for  Anna 

^  to  wed  even  obscurely,  Hpiat  in  the  man  of  her 

choice,  both  the  heart  and  the  head  were  right. 

When,  therefore,  Hartley  made  a  formal  pro 
posal  for  the  hand  of  Anna,  Mr.  Lee  gave  hia  free 


YOUTH  AND  BEAUTY  IN  RUINS.  153 

consent,  although  he  could  not  help  a  feeling  of 
reluctance  in  doing  so.  To  Hartley  he  could  find 
no  valid  objection ;  only,  he  was  an  ordinary  man, 
in  the  common  walks  of  life. 

From  the  time  of  the  engagement  until  the 
wedding-day,  nothing  of  interest  to  the  reader 
transpired.  The  more  frequently  Anna  saw,  and 
the  better  she  knew  her  betrothed,  the  more 
thankful  did  she  feel  that  her  young  heart  had 
been  won  by  a  man  of  such  pure  and  high  prin 
ciples.  By  one  who  could  not  only  see  what  was 
true,  but  who  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  act 
ever  according  to  its  dictates.  Mr.  Lee  also  es- 
>  teemed  the  young  man  more  and  more,  the  oftener 
he  met  him,  and  the  more  closely  he  scrutinized 
his  character ;  and  long  before  the  wedding-day 
arrived,  his  heart  consented  to  the  union  as  freely 
as  did  his  head — his  will  approved  as  well  as  his 
understanding. 

After  the  exciting  occurrence  which  took  place 
at  the  house  of  Mr.  Armitage,  Florence  was  a 
very  different  being  from  what  she  was  before 
She  had  stood,  frightened,  on  the  brink  of  a  terri- 
J         ble  precipice,  just  ready  to  plunge  into  the  awful 
;5          abyss  below,  and  had  been  saved  at  the  moment 
when  hope  was  pluming  her  wings  tc  depart. 
She  went  abroad  but  rarely,  and  when  in  com- 


154-  THE  MAIDEN. 

pany,  was  modest  and  retiring.  A  large  portion 
of  her  time  was  spent  with  Anna,  from  whose 
precepts  and  example  she  learned  to  think  and 
feel  more  as  one  just  entering  upon  the  untried 
and  unknown  scenes  of  life  should  think  and  feel. 
She  learned  to  think  of  marriage  more  justly ;  to 
esteem  it  the  most  important  act  of  a  woman's 
life,  and  as  involving  the  most  important  results. 

Like  Anna's  father,  Florence  did  not  at  first 
feel  reconciled  to  the  choice  she  had  made.  But 
the  oftener  she  met  Hartley,  and  the  more  closely 
she  compared  him  with  the  newer  and  truer  stan 
dards  that  were  forming  in  her  mind,  the  more 
fully  did  she  become  satisfied  that  Anna  had  cho 
sen  with  a  wise  discrimination. 

To  the  unfortunate  being  who  had,  in  the  wild 
anguish  of  a  wounded  and  crushed  spirit,  stepped 
forward  from  her  guilty  obscurity,  and  saved  her 
from  the  ruin  of  all  life's  best  hopes,  Florence  felt 
deeply  grateful.  After  the  over-excited  feelings 
of  Grace  Leary  had  suddenly  subsided  in  uncon 
sciousness,  she  was  removed  to  another  chamber, 
placed  in  bed,  and  every  effort  made  to  restore 
her  to  animation.  It  was  sad  to  look  upon  the 
white,  sunken  face  of  the  death-like  sleeper,  and 
to  think  of  all  she  had  suffered — of  the  vine- 
wreathed  bower  of  virtue  that  she  had  forsaken,  for 


YOUTH  AND  BEAUTY  IN  RUINS.  155 

the  vile  haunts  of  sin  and  deep  pollution.  To 
wards  her  betrayer,  there  was  but  one  feeling — 
that  of  the  deepest  execration.  Many  hours 
passed  before  the  girl  awoke  from  the  deep  swoon 
into  which  she  had  fallen,  during  which  time 
Anna  Lee,  who  had  known  her  and  loved  her  ia 
earlier  days,  sat  anxiously  watching  by  her  side. 
Perhaps  those  few  hours  were  the  saddest  of  An 
na's  whole  life.  She  had  never  seen  such  a  wreck 
before — the  wreck  ot  youtn,  beauty,  and  inno 
cence.  She  had  heard  of  such  things,  and  had 
shuddered  at  the  bare  imagination ;  but  here  lay, 
pale,  and  insensible  before  her,  one  whom  she 
had  loved, — one  by  whose  side  she  had  often  sat, 
and  whose  slender  arms  had  often  been  entwined 
about  her  neck — one  who  had  left  the  flowery 
path  of  honour  and  virtue,  and  been  a  wanderer 
in  the  dark  valley  of  sin. 

She  was  alone  by  the  bed  upon  which  Grace 
lay,  with  her  head  bent  partly  from  her,  when 
a  low  sigh  aroused  her  to  consciousness.  She 
turned  quickly.  The  eyes  of  Grace  were  fixed 
intentJy  upon  her.  But  they  soon  closed  with  a 
languid  motion,  and  the  whole  face  of  the  wretched 
girl  became  marked  by  strong  lines  of  anguish. 
Anna  arose  and  leaned  over  her,  and  in  a  tender 
voice  called  her  name.  But  there  was  no  answer. 


156  THE    MAIDEN 

Her  lips  did,  indeed,  move  convulsively,  as  if  she 
were  about  to  speak ;  but  in  an  instant  they  were 
firmly  compressed,  and  her  head  turned  away. 

No  words  of  kindness  from  Anna,  nor  from  any 

who   approached   her,  could  induce  the  girl  to 

£          make  a  reply.     She  seemed  to  be  in  great  mental 

•;          suffering,  for  her  lips  remained  strongly  shut  to- 

>,          gether,  and   her   brows   corrugated  5    and   once, 

I  •        when  Anna  went  to  take  her  hand,  she  found  the 

fingers  tightly  clenched. 


I  Finding  all  efforts  to  get  her  to  speak  unavail 

ing,  she  was  left  alone,  in  the  hope  that  sleep 
would  tranquilize  her  mind,  and  soften  her  feel-         J 
ings.    But  when  her  chamber  was  entered  on  the 
.norning,  it  was  found  vacant.    The  unhappy  girl 
had  fled  from  virtue's  rebuking  presence. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


CONCLUSION. 

!  A  NTNA'S  wedding-day  quickly  came.     To  her  it 

brought  mingled  feelings  of  pleasure  and  sadness. 

i          The  maiden  was  about  to  take  upon  herself  a  wife's 

duties, — to  enter  upon  an  untried  sphere  of  action. 

j         To  step  from  the  peaceful  happy  home  of  her 

father,  into  the  dwelling  of  a  husband.     To  begin 

a  new  life  of  deeper  and  more  varied  emotions. 

Towards  her  richer,  whom  she  was  about  to         ^ 
leave,  she  felt  an  unusual   tenderness;  for   she 
\         realized,  in  her  own  mind,  how  lonely  that  mother 
;j         would  be  when  she  was  away ;  and  there  were 
j         moments  when,  from  this  reason,  she  half-regretted          § 

having  named  so  early  a  wedding-day.    Then  her 
j          thoughts  would  turn  to  the  children  over  whom 
;>          her  care  had  been  exercised,  ever  since  they  were          <j 
babes  in  their  mother's  arms.     She  loved  then?          J; 
truly — how  could  she  leave  them  ?     Who  could 
fill  to  them  her  place?     Such  thoughts  would  at 
times   throw  a  deeply  pensive  shade   over  her 
feelings.      But    the   intense   love   she  bore  the 

14  1157) 


158  THE    MAIDEN. 

chosen  of  her  heart,  would  carry  awav  her  mind 
to  him,  and  she  would  muse  with  delight  over 
the  thought  of  becoming  one  with  him  in  mar- 


Thus  passed  the  day,  amid  preparations  for 
the  ceremonies  that  were  to  take  place  in  the 
evening.  Anna  was  musing  alone  in  her  room 
just  before  nightfall,  when  her  mother  came  in, 
and  sitting  down  beside  her,  took  her  hand  and 
warmly  pressed  it  within  her  own.  As  she  did  so, 
the  maiden  leaned  over  against  her,  and  let  her 
head  rest  upon  the  bosom  that  had  so  often  before 
pillowed  it,  looking  up  as  she  did  so,  into  her 
mother's  face  with  eyes  swimming  in  tears  of  pure 
filial  love. 

"  You  are  about  to  leave  us,  my  dear  child," 
Mrs.  Lee  said,  .in  a  voice  half  inaudible  from 
emotion ;  and  then  paused  to  get  a  better  command 
of  her  feelings.  Anna  closed  her  eyes  to  keep  the 
tears  from  stealing  over  her  face. 

"  You  are  about  to  leave  us,  Anna,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Lee,  "  and  I  pray,  that  you  may  be  as  good  a 
;vife  as  you  have  been  a  daughter.  I  am  sure  you 
will.  It  is  hard  to  part' with  you,  my  child; 
very  hard;  but  it  is  right  that  you  should  go. 
You  are  a  woman,  and  must  act  a  woman's  part, 
Act  it  well,  and  you  will  be  a  blessing  to  all.  I 


/••»—  "*•      •  *— •.•W'^NX-^^l/^/l^.-^ 


CONCLUSION 


believe  the  man  who  has  chosen  you  to  be  his 

companion  through  the  journey  of  life,  is  worthy 

i         to  claim  your  hand.     I  believe  he  will  do  all  in 

«!         his  power  to  make  you  happy.    Strive  to  do  your 

part  fully.     Above  all,  look  upon  marriage  as  a 

divine  institution,  as  an  ordinance  of  the  church. 

In  making  your  vows,  do  so,  consciously,  in  the 

sight  of  heaven,  and  fulfil  those  vows  as  a  solemn 

religious  obligation. 

"  When  you  have  become  a  wife,  you  will  find 
yourself  in  a  new  world,  with  new  thoughts  and 
feelings,  and  altogether  new  relations.     And  you          $ 
may  not  find  your  duties  in  that  new  world  so          f; 
simple,  nor  so  easily  performed  as  you  have  ima 
gined.   It  is  no  light  matter  for  two  minds,  bearing 
the   relation   that  the   masculine  and  feminine 
minds  bear  to  each  other,  to  enter  upon  the  pro 
cess  oi  unition  5  for  one  end  of  marriage  is  to 


cause  two  minds  that  are  imperfect  in  separation, 
to  unite  and  make  one  truly  perfect  man.  If  the 
human  race  had  not  fallen  from  the  true  order  in 
which  they  were  created,  this  union  would  be  an 
easy  and  delightful  task ;  but  now  it  can  only  take 
place  in  the  degree  that  there  is  a  mutual  restora 
tion  to  true  order,  in  the  minds  of  the  husband 
and  wife.  Just  in  the  degree  that  each  remains 
gelfish,  and  thus  in  evil  principles,  will  be  th« 


IbO  THE   MAIDEN. 

difficulties  and  obstructions  in  the  way  of  this          4 
union ;  and  the  consequent  unhappiness  that  will 
follow  marriage. 

"Your  true  duty,  my  dear  child,  will  be  to 
strive  to  remove  from  your  own  heart  all  that  is 
contrary  to  divine  laws,  and  to  help  your  husband 
to  do  the  same.  Just  so  far  as  you  do  this,  will 
you  be  happy,  no  matter  what  may  be  the  exter 
nal  circumstances  in  which  Providence  may  place 
you. 

"  But  this  work  must  be  a  gradual  one,  both 
with  yourself  and  husband :  and,  therefore,  in  the 
very  nature  of  things,  there  will  arise  states  of 
mind  in  conflict  with  each  other.     You  will  feel, 
sometimes,  like  setting  up  your  will  against  that 
of  your  husband,  and  he  will  be  led  into  the  same 
temptation.    When  this  happens,  Oh !  remember, 
my  child,  that  forbearance  and  submission  will  be         5 
your  only  safe  course.     Do  not  listen  a  moment         ij 
to  the  suggestions  of  pride.     But  be  patient  and         ;> 
yielding ;  by  so  doing,  you  will  help  both  your 
husband  and  yourself.     You  will  elevate  him  into 
a  purer  region,  where  his  vision  will  be  clearer, 
and  you  will  yourself  come  into  that  region. 

"And  now,  what  more  shall  I  say  to  you? 
How  shall  I  rightly  prepare  you  for  your  new 
duties?  How  shall  I  guard  you,  more  than  by 


CONCLUSION.  161 

the  general  precept,  to  shun  all  evil  as  a  sin 
against  God,  and  because  it  is  a  sin  ?  If  you  do 
this,  it  will  be  well  with  you.  The  path  of  duty 
will  be  an  easy  path, — the  way  of  life  smooth. 

"I  give  you  away  to  your  husband,  with  a  con 
fidence  that  few  mothers  can  feel.     You  must, 
you  will  be  happy  in  his  love,  for  he  is  worthy 
of  you.    Oh !  believe  that  you  can  never  be  more 
than  worthy  of  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  Jarrei 
Hartley.     Cherish  the  deep  affection  he  has  for 
)-ou  with  the  tendevest  care ;  for  a  heart  like  hii 
I         is  a  rare  jewel — it  is  priceless  in  value." 
J  Anna  lay  close  to  her  mother's  breast,  and  quiet 

as  an  infant. 

More,  much  more  of  earnest  precept  was  poured 
into  her  ear,  to  all  of  which  the  maiden  listened 
with  the  most  profound  attention.  Mrs.  Lee  lifted 
the  veil  for  her  child,  and  gave  her  new  views  of 
the  marriage  relation,  and  of  her  duties  in  it: 
when  that  child  descended  to  the  crowded  rooms 
below,  some  hours  afterwards,  and  plighted  her 
faith  before  God  and  man,  it  was  with  sober  feel 
ings,  and  a  strong  internal  resolution  to  act  the 
wife's  part  truly,  difficult  as  the  task  might  be  to 
perform. 

Shall  we  say  more  ?    What  more  remains  to  be 
§aid?    Anna  Lee,  the  pure~hearted  Anna  Lee  u 
U* 


62  THE   MAIDEN. 

married  to  the  man  of  her  choice.  She  has  passed 
saieiy  through  the  perils  of  maidenhood,  and  is 
now  a  wife  —  and  a  wife  wisely  wedded. 

But  we  must  not  lose  sight  of  her.  As  a  "  Wife," 
we  will  still  follow  her,  and  see  how,  in  her  new 
relations,  she  sustains  the  harmonious  consistency 
of  character  that  made  her  so  lovely  as  a  maiden, 
and  blessed  all  who  came  within  the  sphere  d 
her  influence. 


THE  WIFE: 


A   8TOBY  FOB 


MY    YOUNG    COUNTRYWOMEN, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

%H   EFFORT   TO  BEGIN   RIGHT.  —  A   WISE   DEOI- 
',  SION  .     .  7 

CHAPTER  II. 

i     THOUGH  TLESS     WOMAN     OF     THE    WORLD.—- 

FLORENCE    ARMITAGE 16 

CHAPTER  III. 

4    SLIGHT    MISUNDERSTANDING 29 

£  !; 

CHAPTER  IV, 

ALL    RIGHT    AGAIN 39 

CHAPTER  V. 

HOUSE    FURNISHING 48 

CHAPTER    VI. 

A    PRUDENT   COURSE    THE   WISEST.       .  .      .       55 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A    FOOLISH    WIFE .61  >' 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    SAD    PICTURE    OF   DOMESTIC    LIFE  ....      70 
1'  (T) 


Tl  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

F1LSE    FRIENDS    ..........       80 

CHAPTER  X. 

BLIND   INFATUATION  .........       90 

CHAPTER  XI. 

AN   ACT    TO   BE   REPENTED   OF  ......    102 

CHAPTER  XII. 

MARRIAGF    CHANGES   SOCIAL    RELATIONS.       .       .108 
S  < 

I  .  CHAPTER  XIII.  jj 

MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-WARMING  .     .     .     .     .113 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOW   IT   AFFECTED   HER   HUSBAND'S    CREDIT.     .    123 

CHAPTER  XV. 

TAKING   A   LOWER   PLACE   IN   SOCIETY     .       .       .131 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
ITtUE   LOVE    TRIED   AND    PROVED  ....  139 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
CHAPTER  XVIII, 


A    CHANGE  ...........      .    150 


156 


THE  WIFE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

\  : 

?      AH  EFFORT  TO  BEGIN  RIGHT  —  A  ^  1  B  B 

DECISION.  S 

JAMES  HARTLEY  had  been  married  three  weeks 
—  three  of  the  happiest  weeks  he  had  ever  spent  ; 
but  happier  far  was  his  lovely  young  bride.  A 
form  of  affection,  as  every  woman  is,  she  could 
love  more  deeply,  and  feel  a  more  intense  delight 
in  loving.  The  more  closely  she  looked  into  her 

\         husband's  mind,  and  the  clearer  she  saw  and  un-          b 

•)  .       > 

derstood  the  moral  qualities  by  which  it  was 
adorned,  the  purer  and  more  elevated  was  her 
love. 

They  sat  alone,  side  by  side,  as  the  day  waa 
drawing  to  a  close,  the  hand  of  the  wife  resting, 
confidingly,  in  that  of  her  husband.  They  were 
yet  in  the  family  of  the  bride's  father,  who  would 
not  hear  to  their  going  away 


J  8  THE    WIFE. 

"It  is  plenty  of  time,  these  three  or  four 
months  to  come,  for  Anna  to  take  upon  herself 
the  cares  of  domestic  life,"  he  would  say,  when 
ever  any  allusion  was  made  by  eithrr  his  daughter 
or  her  husband  to  their  intention  of  going  to  house 
keeping.  ;; 

But  both  James  Hartley  and  his  bride  thought 
differently,  as  a  conversation  that  passed  between 
them  some  few  days  previously,  will  show.  jj 

"  We  have   been   married  now  for   nearly  a         ;| 
month,  Anna,"  remarked  Hartley ;  "  and  it  is  full 
time  that  we  began  our  preparations  for  house 
keeping." 

"  A  thing,  you  know,  that  father  will  not  con 
sent  to  our  doing."  ;! 

"  So  it  seems.  But,  is  it  right  for  us  to  remain 
here  longer  than  is  necessary  to  make  proper  ar 
rangements  for  getting  into  our  own  house  ?"  J 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  hurry 
these  arrangements  ?"  returned  Anna. 

"None  in  the  least.  We  should  make  them 
deliberately  and  wisely."  ,  J 

"And  may  they  not  be  made  as  well  three 
months  hence  as  now  ?" 

"  You  shall  answer  that  question  yourself,"  re 
plied  Hartley,  smiling.  "  We  are  now  husband 
and  wife." 


AN   EFFORT   TO   BEGIN   RIGHT.  9 

i 

A  light,  like  the  flitting  of  a  sun-ray  over  the  <j 

face  of  Anna,  was  the  response  to  this  affirmation. 
"  As  such,"  continued  the  husband,  "  we  oc 
cupy  a  new,  peculiar,  and  distinct  position  in  so 
ciety.  The  sphere  of  our  influence  is  a  different 
one  from  what  it  was.  All  who  approach  us  are 
affected  differently  from  what  they  formerly  were. 
You  can  understand  why  this  is  so  ?" 

"Clearly.     All  new  relations  make  a  corres-          j 
ponding  impression  on    society.     The  influence 
oi  the  maiden  is  one  thing,  and  the  influence  of 
J,         the  wife  another." 
J  "  And  they  act  in  different  spheres." 

!|  "  Yes.     One  is  on   the  circumference  of  the 

family  circle,  so  to  speak,  the  other  in  the  centre." 
"  The  exact  truth.     Now,  what  position  does  a 
wife  occupy  in  a  family  circle  of  which  she  is  not          ^ 
the  centre  ?     An  orderly  one  ?" 

Anna  shook  her  head.  *• 

"  If  not  an  orderly  one,  then  not  the  most  use 
ful  one — not  the  true  one."  5 
;>              "  But  I,  as  a  wife,  would  make  both  centre  and 
circumference  in   the  family  circle,   now.     Or, 
rather,  you  and  I  would." 

5  "Even  admitting  this,   which  is  not  exactly    .      c< 

clear,  we  would  both  be  in  truer  order  than  when 


r 

$  10  THE   WIFE. 

on  the  circumference  and  not  in  the  centie  at  the 
same  time.     You  will  admit  that." 

"  I  cannot  help  doing  so." 

"  And  if  in  truer  order,  in  a  better  way  of  act 
ing  usefully  in  the  world." 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  as  husband  and  wife,  can  we  too  soon 
take  our  true  social  position  ?    I  think  not.     Life's 
duties  are  not  so  few,  that  any  of  them  can  safely 
be  neglected  for  a  single  day.     It  is  very  pleasant         <; 
to  live  here,  without  a  thought  or  care  about  ex 
ternal  things.     But  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it  is         \\ 
«i  good  for  either  of  us."  \ 

«;  "  Nor  am  I,  now  that  I  fully  comprehend  your 

>  views,  which  I  see  to  be  correct  in  every  particu-         > 

\  lar.     Father  and  mother  will  regret  our  leaving 

them,  I  know.     But  you  are  now  my  husband, 
and  I  am  ready,  when  I  see  truth  in  your  rational 
mind,  to  stand  up  by  your  side  in  obedience  to         !> 
the  truth,  even  though  all  the  world  should  be 
offended." 

"Which,  of  course,  they  will  not  be,  at  oui         \ 
doing  so  sensible  a  thing  as  going  to  housekeeping 
in  a  month  or  two  after  our  marriage  r- 

Anna  smiled  sweetly  intc  her  husband's  face, 
as  he  replied  thus  playfully  to  her  earnestly  ex 
pressed  sentiment  \ 


AN  EJFFQRT   TO  BEG.N  RIGHT.  11 

From  that  tjme  their  resolution  was  taken. 

On  the  occasion  referred  to  in  the  opening  ol 
this  chapter,  the  subject  of  conversation  was  theu 
"ntention  of  making  early  preparations  for  getting 
into  their  own  house.  On  the  day  previous, 
Uiey  had  conversed  seriously  with  Anna's  father 
and  mother,  who,  much  against  their  will,  could 
not  help  yielding  a  rational  consent  to  the  reasons 
offered  by  their  children  for  the  resolution  to  take 
their  true  place  in  society. 

"  There  is  now  a  very  good  house  on  Walnut 
street  to  rent,  which,  I  think,  will  just  suit  us," 
remarked  Hartley,,  while  they  sat,  hand  in  hand, 
as  we  have  seen.  "  I  looked  through  it  to-day, 
and  find  that  it  has  every  convenience  that  could 
be  desired.  It  is  just  below street." 

"  One  of  those  large,  handsome  houses  V9 

66  Yes.     You  remember  them  ?" 

"  Very  well.     What  is  the  rent  V9 

"  Seven  hundred  dollars." 

Anna  made  no  reply,  but  sat  with  her  eyes  cast 
thoughtfully  to  the  floor.  She  not  only  had  no 
wish  to  go  into  so  large  and  expensive  a  house, 
but  felt  an  instant  reluctance  at  the  thought  of 
cbing  so.  She  had  no  certain  knowledge  in  regard 
to  her  husband's  worldly  circumstances,  but  she 
did  not  believe  that  he  was  rich.  She  had  been 


her  husband  in  anything  requiring   concert   of 
action,  had,  until  now,  never  crossed  h^r  mind. 

"  Don't  you  think  the  rent  too  high  ?"  she  said, 
in  a  suggestive  tone, 


12  THE   WIFE.  \ 

< 

living  with  her  father  in  a  plain  and  comfortable  ;I 
style,  and  did  not  think  of  anything  greatly  <! 
superior. 

Hartley  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of  hii 
young  wife,  and  sought  to  read  its  expression.  \ 

"  How  do  you  like  the  house  I  mention  V9  he 
at  length  said.  j 

Here  came  a  trial  for  Anna,  the  trial  of  not         < 
agreeing  with  her  husband.      Her  wish  was  to 
yield,  in  all  things,  her  will  to  his  ;  but,  unless  her 
judgment  approved,  she  could  not  so  yield  with  a 
clear  conscience.     In  this  matter,  her  judgment 
did  not  approve,  and  she  felt  an  acute  pain  at  the 
thought  of  objecting  to  his  proposal.     With  an         j 
effort,  and  a  look  that  asked  forgiveness  for  oppo 
sition,  she  said  — 

"  It  is  a  very  handsome  house.     But  -  " 

And  she  hesitated,  while  a  warm  glow  suffused 
her  face.  j 

"  But  what,  dear  "?"  The  kindness  with  which 
this  was  spoken,  re-assured  Anna,  who  felt  an  in 
ward  dread  of  the  effects  of  opposition.  The  idea 
that  she  should  ever  be  called  upon  to  differ  from 


AN  EFFORT   TO   BEGIN   RIGHT.  13 

**Not  for  the  house.  It  is  a  very  excellent 
one,  and  there  is  not  a  more  desirable  situation,  I 
think,  in  the  city." 

"  Bui  for  us  to  pay,  I  mean  P9 

Hartley  looked  again  earnestly  into  the  face  oi 
his  wife — so  earnestly  that  her  eyes  dropped  be 
neath  his  fixed  gaze.  Another  silence  followed ; 
to  Anna  a  troubled  one. 

"  I  don't  know  but  that  you  are  right,"  the 


husband  said,  with  a  frank  smile.     "  Seven  hun-          l<; 
dred  dollars  is  rather  a  heavy  rent  for  two  young 
people  like  us  to  pay." 

"  But  it  is  not  only  the  rent,  dear,"  returned 
Anna,  brightening  up.  "  A  large  and  elegant  J> 

house  like  that,  must  be  furnished  in  a  liberal  and 
corresponding  style.  And  then  there  would  have 
to  be  a  free  expenditure  of  money  to  maintain 
such  an  establishment.  For  my  part,  I  do  not 
desire  to  come  before  the  world  as  a  young  wife, 
in  so  imposing  a  manner." 

Hartley  returned,  to  this,  an  approving  pressure 
of  the  hand  he  still  held. 

"  Still,"  resumed  Anna, "  if  your  circumstancei 
justify  such  a  style  of  living,  and  you  desire  it, 
I,  as  your  wife,  will  not  object  for  an  instant." 

This  remark  helped  to  set  Hartley  right.  The 
house  in  which  he  was  partner,  was  d&ing  a  heavy 


14  THE   WIFE. 

business,  and  there  was  a  prospect  of  making  large 
profits.  If  this  expectation  should  be  realized,  his 
division  would  be  a  handsome  one.  But  if  not  '?— 
That  "if"  had  never  before  presented  itself  39 
distinctly  to  his  mind  as  at  this  moment.  In 
thinking  about  commencing  housekeeping,  he  had 
felt  ambitious  to  raise  Anna  to  as  elevated  a  con 
dition  as  possible.  To  place  her  along  side  of  the 
"best  and  proudest."  All  this  was  more  from 
impulse,  and  feeling  than  reason.  His  pride,  not 

\          his  good  common  sense  was  influencing  him.     At 
the  first  blush,  although  he  did  not  let  it  be  seen,  he 

5          felt  disappointed  at  the  want  of  cordial  approval 

manifested  by  Anna,  for  whose  sake,  more  than          s 
for  his  own,  he  had  fixed  upon  the  handsome  house 
in  Walnut  street.     But  the  view  she  took  of  the          ;> 
subject,  so  soon  as  it  came  directly  in  front  of  the          ;> 
eye  of  his  mind,  he  saw  to  be  the  true  one. 

"  That  may  be  a  question,"  he  said,  in  reply  to 
her  last  remark,  speaking  thoughtfully.  "It  is 
true,  that  everything  looks  bright  ahead  ;  but  it  is 
also  true,  that  clouds  often  come  suddenly  over  the 
brightest  skies.  It  was  for  your  sake  that ."  wished 
to  rent  that  house,  I  felt  a  pride  in  the  thought 
of  making  you  its  mistress." 

"  I  shall  be  much  happier,  as  the  mistress  of  a 
less  imposing  residence.  Let  us  begin  the  world 


A    WISE   DECISION.  15 


without  ostentation.     As  we  are  about  to  com- 
<;          mence  housekeeping  from  a  sense  of  rght,  let  us 
not  consult  appearances,  but  be  governed  through- 
<;          out  by  the  right  ends  that  prompted  our  first  de 
li          cision.     For  my  part,  a  house  at  half,  or  even  less 
than  half  the  rent  of  the  one  in  Walnut  street, 
will  meet  all  my  expectations.     To   manage  its 
j          internal  arrangements  will  cost  me  less  care  and 
labour,  and  you  less  money.     And  it  is  needless 
j          to  be  too  free  with  either  in  the  beginning  of  life." 
J  "  Well  and  wisely,  said,  Anna.     I  fully  agree 

with  you.  I  yielded  to  a  weakness  when  I  set 
|j  my  heart  upon  the  house  I  have  mentioned.  I 
will  look  further  and  see  if  I  cannot  find  as  many 
comforts  as  that  presented,  in  a  more  compact, 
arid  less  costly  form." 

"I  am  sure  you  will.  And  I  am  sure  we  will 
be  happier  than  if  we  had  made  our  debut  in  a 
much  more  imposing  way." 

And  thus  the  matter  was  settled.  The  reader 
cannot  but  say,  wisely,  when  he  reflects,  that 
James  Hartley  was 'without  capital  himself,  and 
only  a  junior  partner  in  a  mercantile  house,  which, 
although  it  was  doing  a  heavy  business,  might  not 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  from  causes  against  which 
ordinary  foresight  could  not  guard,  divide  anything 
!  more  than  very  moderate  profits.  A  woman  with 

> _w 


rv-g-V-wW 


16  THE   WIFE. 

different  views  and  feelings,  would  never  have 
thought  of  objecting  to  become  the  mistress  of  an 
establishment  like  the  one  offered  by  Hartley ; 
but  Anna  had  no  weak  pride  or  love  of  show  to 
gratify.  She  looked  only  to  what  was  right ;  or, 
at  least,  ever  sought  to  do  so. 


the  conversation  mentioned  in  the  preceding 
£  chapter  had  taken  place.  Mrs.  Riston  had  called 

in  to  see  Anna,  whose  acquaintance  she  had  re 
cently  made. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  smiling  reply. 

"  You  Ul  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Why  so  V9 

"  Oh,  it  will  bring  you  into  a  world  of  trouble. 
My  husband  has  been  teasing  me  to  death  about 
going  to  housekeeping  ever  since  we  have  been 
married.  But  I  won't  hear  to  it." 


CHAPTER  H.  ;: 

A   THOUGHTLESS   WOMAN   OF   THE   WORLD 
j;  FLORENCE    AR MI TAGE.  jj 

\  "  You  are  going  to  housekeeping,  I  hear,"  said 

Mrs.  Riston,  a  young  friend,  about  a  week  after 


A    THOUGHTLESS  WOMAN    OF    THE   WORLD.       17 

"That  is  strange.  I  thought  every  married 
woman  would  like  to  be  in  her  own  house." 

"Oh  dear!  no.  I  know  dozens  who  would 
throw  houses  and  all  into  the  Schuylkill  if  they 
could.  It  makes  a  slave  of  a  woman,  Mrs.  Hart 
ley.  She  is«tied  down  to  a  certain  routine  of 
duties  of  the  most  irksome  nature  j  and  this,  day  ; 

in  and  day  out,  the  year  round.     And  what  is 
worse,  instead  of  her  duties  growing  lighter,  they  ^ 

are  constantly  increasing." 

"  But  all  these  duties  it  is  right  for  her  to  per 
form,  is  it  not  P> 

"  Not  if  she  can  get  out  of  them,  or  delegate 
their  performance  to  some  one  else,  as  I  do.  In 
a  boarding-house  you  pay  for  having  all  this  trou- 
«;  ble  taken  off  your  hands.  And  I  think  our  hus 
bands  may  just  as  well  pay  for  it  as  not.  I  have 
no  notion  of  being  a  slave.  I  did  not  marry  to 
become  a  mere  drudge,  so  to  speak,  to  any  one." 

"It  is  a  question  in  my  mind,  Mrs.  Riston, 
whether  it  is  right  to  delegate  the  duties  we  are 
competent  to  perform,"  was  Anna's  mild  reply. 

"  All  nonsense !  Get  out  of  doing  everything 
you  can.  At  the  best  you  will  have  your  hands 
full" 

"No  doubt  I  shall  find  plenty  to  do;  but  my 
2* 


L 


THE    WIFE. 

;  labour  will  be  lightened  by  the  consciousness  thai 

<!  it  is  done  in  order  to  make  others  happy." 

"  Others  happy  !    Oh,  la !    Who  '11  try  to  make         |j 
you  happy,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  My  husband,  I  hope,"  said  Anna,  gravely. 

"  Humph  !     You  will  see.     Husbands  aint  the 
most  unselfish  creatures  in  the  world.     I  believ 
they  are  not  proverbial  for  sacrificing  much  to  the         <! 
happiness  of  their  wives."  <; 

Anna  felt  shocked  at  this.    But  her  young  friend         t, 
did  not  notice  the  effect  her  words  produced,  and 
continued  to  run  on.  \ 

"  You  had  better  take  my  advice,  and  tell  your 
husband,  as  I  have  told  mine  over  and  over  again,       .  «; 
that  you  are  not  going  to  become  a  domestic  slave 
for  him  or  anybody  else." 

Anna  shook  her  head. 

<f  "  Well !     Just  as  you  like.     If  you  will  go  to 

housekeeping,  so  be  it.     It  wont  hurt  me.     Have 
you  picked  out  your  house  yet  ?" 

"We  havn't   exactly  decided.     Mr.   Hartley 
thought,  at  first,  of  taking  a  very  beautiful  house 
jj  in  Walnut  street,  at  a  rent  of  seven  hundred  dol- 

X  lars  a  year." 

"But  very  soon  thought  better  of  it,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

"  If  7  had  not  objected,  he  would  have  taken  it." 


A    THOUGHTLESS  WOMAN    OF    THE   WORLD.       19 

"You  objected?    Why  so?" 

"  I  thought  it  would  involve  more  expense  and 
•tyle  than  two  young  folks  like  us  ought  to  in 
dulge  in." 

"Upon  my  word!  But  you  are  a  novice  in 
the  world !  This  is  the  first  instance  that  has  oc 
curred  among  all  my  acquaintances  of  such  a  thing 
as  a  wife  objecting  to  style  and  expense.  Precious 
few  of  us  get  the  chance,  I  can  assure  you !  And 
you  '11  soon  wish,  or  C  am  mistaken,  that  you  had 
>  taken  your  good^nan  at  his  word." 

Anna  felt  a  glow  of  indignation  at  this  reflec 
tion  upon  her  husband.  But  she  forced  herself  to 
appear  unmoved,  merely  replying, 

"  No :  I  shall  never  wish  that.  I  shall  never 
have  any  want,  in  his  power  to  supply,  that  will 
not  be  readily  met." 

j  f 

"  So  you  may  think  now.     But  take  my  advice,  ;• 

and  don't  put  any  prudential  and  penurious  no-  £ 

tions  into  your  husband's  head.  If  he  wants  to 
carpet  your  floors  with  gold,  let  him  do  it.  He  Ml  ;•' 

never  hurt  himself  by  spending  money  on  you  or 
his  household.  Men  rarely,  if  ever,  do,  let  me  tell 
you.  As  they  grow  older,  they  get  to  be  closer 
and  closer  with  their  money,  until,  at  last,  you  can 
get  scarcely  anything  at  all.  The  best  time  is  at 


20  THE   WIFE. 

first.     The  first  lew  years  of  marriage  is  the  only 
golden  harvest  time  a  woman  ever  sees." 

"  You  have  not  been  married  long  enough  to 
speak  all  this  from  experience." 

"  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  more  of  life  than  you 
have,  child ;  and  I  have  had  my  own  experience. 
As  far  as  it  goes,  it  can  witness  fully  to  what  I 
have  said.  And  yet  my  husband  is  as  good*  as  the 
rest,  and  much  better  than  the  mass.  I  love  him 
about  as  well,  I  suppose,  as  most  women  love 
their  husbands ;  though  I  don't  pretend  to  be  blind  $ 
to  his  faults.  But  what  kind  of  a  house  do  you 
prefer,  seeing  that  the  elegant  one  in  Walnut 
street  is  rather  costly  and  stylish?"  < 

"  There  is  a  house  vacant  close  by.  Perhaps 
you  noticed  the  bill  as  you  came  up  Eighth 
street."  ] 

"Just  around  the  corner?"  '< 

"  Yes,  the  rent  is  three  hundred  dollars." 

"Mrs.  Hartley!" 

"It  is  a  very  good  house,  and  quite  genteel, 
with  a  great  deal  more  room  than  we  want." 

"  But,  my  dear,  good  madam,  it  is  nothing  but 
an  ordinary  house,  built  to  rent.  There  is  nothing 
elegant  about  it.  Don't  refuse  to  take  the  one  in 
Walnut  street  for  so  common  an  affair  as  this,  if 
you  can  get  it.  Always  go  in  for  the  best." 


i 

(,  A   THOUGHTLESS  WOMAN   OF    THE   WORLD.      21 

I  x  "I  have  been  through  it,  and  find  it  replete 
with  every  convenience  for  a  moderate  sized 
family.  I  have  no  wish  to  make  a  display.  That 
could  render  me  no  happier.  I  go  to  housekeep 
ing,  because  I  think  it  right  to  take  my  true  place 

\  as  the  mistress  of  a  family ;  and  for  no  other  rea 
son.  Here  I  could  be  happy,  without  a  care.  4 

s'         But  I  would  be  out  of  my  true  sphere."  J; 

"You  are  certainly  the  strangest  creature  I 
ever  met,"  replied  Mrs.  Riston.  "But  a  -few 
years  will  take  all  this  nonsense  out  of  you."  1; 

!;  The  displeasure  felt  by  Anna  at  Mrs.  Riston's 

insinuations  against  her  husband,  began  to  give 
way,  as  she  saw  more  clearly  the  lady's  charao 

j  ter,  and  began  to  understand  that,  although  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  earnest  in  what  was  said,  there 

J  was  much  more  of  talk  for  talk  sake.  She,  there 
fore,  merely  replied  in  a  laughing  voice  to  Mrs. 
Histon's  last  remark,  and  sought  to  change  the 
subject.  Before  they  parted,  the  friend  could  not 
help  saying —  ;'. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hartley,  I  cannot  get  over 
your  refusing  that  elegant  house  in  Walnut  street.  jj 

t  snould  like,  above  all  things,  to  see  you  in  just 
such  a  dwelling,  elegantly  furnished.  If  I  had 
refused  the  splendid  offer  that  you  did  in  Herbert 


22  THE    WIFE.  S 

Gardiner,  I  would  compass  sea  and  land  but  I  »d 
show  him  that  I  had  lost  nothing." 

This   very   indelicate   and    ill-timed    remark, 
caused  the  blood  to  rush  to  the  brow  of  Anna,  and         1 
her  eyes  to  flash  with  honest  indignation.     Her 
volatile  friend  saw  that  she  had  gone  a  little  too         £ 
far,  and  attempted  to  make  all  right  again,  by 
begging  "  a  thousand  pardons."     Anna's  external         I 
composure  soon  returned,  but  she  sought  to  change,         f 
entirely,  the  subject  of  conversation.      But,  in 
spite  of  all  she   could  do,  the  lady  would,  ever 
and  anon,  have  something  disparaging  to  say  about 
husbands,  and  gently  insinuate  that  Anna  herself, 
before  she  was  many  years  older,  would  find  that         jj 
all  was  not  gold  that  glittered. 

The  warmth  of  Anna's  feeling,  gradually,  in 
spite  of  herself,  passed  off,  as  she  continued  to 
converse  with  Mrs.  Biston,  until  she  became  con-  <J 
strained  in  her  manner.  This  affected  her  visiter, 
who  perceived,  with  a  woman's  intuition,  that  her 
sentiments  had  not  met  with  the  approval  they  too 
often  did  from  her  lady  friends.  She  tried,  be 
fore  she  went  away,  to  soften  some  things  she  had 
said,  and  laugh  at  others  as  having  been  uttered 
in  jest.  After  Mrs.  Eiston's  departure,  Anna  sat 
in  a  thoughtiiu  mood  for  some  time.  The  remarks  £ 


j 

FLORENCE    ARMITAGE.  23 

she  had  just  listened  to,  shocked  her  feelings  more 
j;          and  more,  the  more  she  reflected  on  them. 

"Can  there  be  any  happiness,"  she  mused,  "in 
marriage  thus  viewed''  -in  the  marriage  relation 
'',          thus  perverted?     I  can   conceive  of  none.     To 
s          me,  such  a  union  would  be,  of  all  things,  a  con 

uition  most  miserable.     No  unity  of  sentiment  or  \ 

;J          end — no   confidence — no   self-sacrifice   for   each 
other's  good ;   but  restrictions  on  the  one   hand, 
j          and   encroachments  on  the  other.     Ah  me!    It 
j;         makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  woman  in  circum 
stances  so  deplorable.     To  me  death  would  be  a 
thousand  times  preferable."  *  j 

While  thus  musing,  another  visiter  called.  It 
was  Florence  Armitage,  whom  the  readers  of  the 
"  MAIDEN"  will  remember.  Since  the  severe  j 

lesson   her  heart  had   received,  Florence  was  a 
good  deal  changed.     Her  thoughtlessness,  which 
£         had  come  near  involving  her  in  a  whole  lifetime  J 

of  misery ;  and  her  escape,  effected  by  an  incident 
at  once  strange  and  thrilling  in  its  character,  made 
her  feel  humble  and  thankful.  She  visited  Anna 
frrquently,  and  profited  much  more  than  formerly 
by  her  truthful  precepts  and  life  so  purely  accor 
dant  with  all  right  principles. 

On  fhis  occasion,  Anna  saw,  after  a  few  mo 
ments,  that  her  friend  was  rlightly  agitated. 


J\.-V»^V_- 

1 

24  THE  WJFE. 


"  \ou  seem  disturbed,  Florence.     What  is  the          ^ 
matter  ?"  she  said. 

The  colour  deepened  on  the  maiden's  face. 

"  Two  things  have  disturbed  me,"  she  replied. 
"  Who  do  you  think  I  met  in  the  street,  just 
now  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

«  William  Archer." 

"You  did?" 

"  Yes.     And  he  paused,  as  we  approached  each 
{  other,  evidently  with  the  design  of  speaking." 

"  But  you  did  not  recognise  him  ?" 

"No." 

"  In  that,  I  need  scarcely  say,  you  were  right          \ 
Your  own  heart  will  tell  you  that." 

"  And  yet,  Anna,  I  confess  to  you,  that  I  was 
!j  tempted  to  do  so." 

"  Florence !"  Anna's  voice  and  countenance 
expressed  strongly  the  surprise  she  felt. 

"  Do  not   condemn   me  until   you   hear   all 
;|  until  you  know  the  cause  of  disturbance.     I  re* 

ceived  a  letter  from  him  yesterday." 

"  Which    you    immediately    returned,    unan 
\  Bwered." 

"  No,  I  did  not  feel  sure  that  I  ought  to  do  so. 
j  until  I  had  seen  and  conversed  with  you  about  it. 

"  What  does  he  sav  v> 


FLORENCE   ARMITAGB.  25 

"Here  is  his  letter  j  read  it." 

Anna  shrunk  from  touching  the  epistle,  which 
$         Florence  held  towards  her. 

"  Read  it  aloud,  if  you  particularly  wish  me  to 
,         *now  its  contents."  she  merely  said. 

Florence  did  as  requ  ?sted.  The  letter  contained 
a  most  solemn  denial  of  charges  brought  against 
the  writer  by  a  certain  individual,  who  was,  he 
said,  evidently  not  in  her  right  mind,  and  whose 
statements  should  at  least  be  taken  with  great  cau 
tion.  He  knew  that  rumour  had  been  busy  with 
his  name,  and  had  magnified  his  faults  into  crimes ; 
^  "  and  how  easy  it  is,"  he  urged,  "  to  blast  any 
<;  man's  character  by  false  charges,  if  he  is  not  per 
mitted  to  refute  them ;" — with  much  more  of  the 
same  tenour.  Altogether,  the  letter  was  written 
with  tact,  force,  and  an  air  of  great  plausibility, 
and  well  calculated  to  create  a  doubt  as  to  the 
correctness  of  the  judgment  which  the  general  ]\ 
voice  had  passed  upon  him.  He  did  not,  he  said, 
purpose  to  renew  his  suit  for  the  hand  of  Florence  j 
for  that,  he  was  well  assured,  would  be  useless. 
But,  it  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  himself  and  society 
to  at  least  make  an  attempt  to  vindicate  his  char 
acter,  and  in  the  highest  quart*  r. 

After  Florence  had  read  tho  letter,  she  looked 
3 


26  THE   WIFE. 

inquiringly  into  the  face  of  Mrs.  Hartley     Anna 
returned  her  steady  look,  but  made  no  remark. 

"There  is,  at  least,  an  appearance  of  truth 
about  this  letter,"  Florence  at  length  said. 

Mrs.  Hartley  compressed  her  lips  and  shook 
her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

;  '  "  I  am  afraid,  Anna,  that  you  sometimes  suffer 

your  prejudices  to  obscure  the   otherwise  clear 
perceptions  of  your  mind." 

"I  trust  that  I  have  but  few  prejudices,  Flo 
rence.     Still,  I  am  but  a  weak  and  erring  mortal,         ? 
and  may  fall  into  wrong  judgments  of  others."  <; 

I.  "We  are  all  liable  to  err,  Anna." 

"  True.  But,  if  a  woman's  heart  is  in  the  right 
place — that  is,  has  a  love  for  all  that  is  innocent 
and  virtuous,  and  a  deep  abhorrence  of  everything 
opposite  to  these,  she  will  not  be  very  liable  to 
form  an  erroneous  judgment  of  any  man  who  ap-  | 
preaches  her,  no  matter  how  many  semblances  01 
virtue  he  may  put  on.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  pr^- 
Vnd  to  have  very  acute  perceptions,  but  from 
William  Archer,  you  well  know,  I  always  shrunk 

;•          with  instinctive  dislike."  < 

ft  f 

"  That  arose,  no  doubt,  from  the  estimate  com 
mon  report  nal  caused  you  to  form  of  his  char 
acter." 


FLORENCE    ARMITAGE.  27 

"  And  are  you  prepared  to  doubt  common  re 
port,  on  this  head?" 

"Somewhat,  I  must  confess.  You  have  heard 
his  solemn  denial." 

"  And  Grace  Leary's  still  more  solemn  afhrma- 
tion." 

"But  she  was,  evidently,  beside  herself." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Mrs.  Hartley  said  with 
emphasis.  "  Recall  the  whole  scene  that  passed 
on  the  evening  appointed  for  your  marriage. 
Bring  up  Grace  Leary  before  you,  in  imagination, 
as  she  then  appeared,  and  as  she  then  confronted 
Archer,  and  answer  to  your  own  heart  whether 
she  did  not  utter  the  truth.  If  she  were  deranged, 
*hat  derangement  brought  no  oblivion.  She  did 
not  mistake  her  betrayer.  Did  a  doubt  cross  your 
mind  then,  or  the  mind  of  any  one  present?  No!" 

Still,  Florence  seemed  unconvinced. 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  yourself,  in  accred- 
ting  this  letter?"  Anna  asked. 

"  Nothing  at  all." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"I  think  I  am.  Perhaps  to  say  that  I  propose 
nothing  is  too  unqualified  an  expression.  I  cer 
tainly  propose,  at  least,  to  treat  the  young  man 
civilly,  if  no  more,  provided  I  can  feel  satisfied 
that  he  has  been  wrongfully  accused." 


r 


28  THE   WIFE. 

"  What  will  satisfy  you  ?    His  mere  denial  1* 

"  No." 

"  You  must  see  the  proof?"  ,  < 

« Yes."  | 

"  Florence !  I  should  think  you  had  seen  proofs 
enough.     But,  if  not  satisfied,  a  half  hour's  con 
versation  with  my  mother  will  convince  you  that 
the  writer  of  the  letter  you  hold  in  your  hand  is          j 
quite  as  base  as  you  had  been  led  to  believe  him." 

No  reply  was  made.  Florence  folded  the  letter, 
and  returned  it  to  her  pocket,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
breathed  forth  unconsciously. 

Mrs.  Hartley  was  deeply  pained  at  observing 
this  change  in  the  mind  of  her  young  friend.  But  £ 
she  said  no  more,  trusting  that  the  momentary 
weakness  to  which  she  was  yielding  would  pass 
away,  after  conversing  with  her  mother,  who  knew 
much  more  about  Archer  than  the  daughter  wished 
to  utter,  or  we  record. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

A     SLIGHT     MISUNDERSTANDING. 

AFTER  the  conversation  between  Mrs.  HartW 
and  Florence  had  taken  a  new  direction,  the  sub- 
?          ject  of  going  to  housekeeping  was   introduced. 
Like  Mrs.  Riston,  Florence  was  in  favor  of  the 
large  house  in,  Walnut   street,  and   urged  Anna          <! 
very  strongly  to  change  her  mind,  and  let  he? 
j         husband  take  it, 

"  He  is  able  enough,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  righ*  sure  ?" 

"He   ought   to   to.     Isn't  he  in  the  rfrm  of 

R ,  S &  Co.'- 

I>  "  As  a  junior  partnei   I  believe." 

"  He  wished  to  take  the  house,  you  say  ?" 
"  At  first  he  did." 

"  He  ought  to  know  better  than  any  one  eJse 
^         whether  he  could  afford  to  do  so  or  not." 

"  True.  But  he  now  thinks,  with  me,  that  it 
will  be  wiser  for  us  to  commence  housekeeping  in 
a  style  less  imposing." 

"  I  must  say,"  returned  Florence,  "  that  Mr. 
Hartley  would  have  found  very  few  women  to 
object  as  you  have  done  to  a  large  and  elegant 
<;  3  *  (29* 


t  30  TlfE   WIFE. 

? 

house.     I  am   sure  the   temptation  would  have 

been  too  much  for  me." 
j  "If  you  had  clearly  seen  that  it  was  neither 

wrise  nor  prudent  to  do  so  1" 

"That   might   have   altered  the  case.     But  1 

think  few  but  yourself  would  have   stopped   to 

consider  about  wisdom  and  prudence." 

"  To  their  sorrow  in  the  end,  perhaps.  I,  for 
|j  one,  would  much  rather  take  an  humble  position 
J  in  society  and  rise,  if  good  fortune  attend  me, 
|  gradually;  than,  after  taking  a  high  position,  be, 
i  in  a  few  years,  thrust  down." 
s  "If  there  be  danger  of  that,  your  course  was 

<  doubtless  best.     But  why  should  you  apprehend 
any  such  disaster  ?" 

<  "  I  do  not  apprehend  evil,  I  only  act  as  I  think 
[I      •    wisely.     My  husband  is  a  young  man  who  has 

been  in  business  only  for  a  few  years.  There  are 
now  but  two  of  us,  and  we  do  not  need  a  very 
large  house.  For  both  of  these  reasons,  it  is  plain 
to  my  mind  that  we  ought  to  take  our  place  in 

j;  society  without  ostentation  or  lavish  expenditure. 

'/  It  is  barely  possible  that  my  husband  may  not  find 

all  his  business  expectations  realized.  I  do  not 
know  what  his  prospects  are,  for  I  am  in  no  way 
conversant  with  them.  I  only  know  that  he  had 
no  capital  of  his  own  when  he  was  taken  into 

! J 


A   SLIGHT   MISUNDERSTANDING.  31 


business.     That  he   has  told  me.    Now   if  he  s 

should  be  very  successful,  it  will  be  easy  for  us  /, 

to  go  up  higher  in  a  few  years.     If  not,  and  we 
had  come  out  in  costly  style,  it  would  be  a  hard 
trial  and  a  mortifying  one  to  come  down." 
^  "  Your   good    sense   is    always    guiding   you 

aright,"  Florence  could  not  help  saying.     "  It  is  \ 

best,  no  doubt,  that  you  should  do  as  you  have 
proposed  ;  but,  there  is  not  one  in  a  hundred  who 
!>         would  have  exercised  your  prudent  forethought  ;  j 

I  am  sure  I  could  not  have  done  it." 

A  few  days  after  this,  Hartley  and  his  wife  de-  jj 

cided  to  take  the  house  in  Eighth  street.  Then 
came  the  work  of  furnishing  it.  And  here  the 
prudent  forethought  of  Anna  was  again  seen. 
Her  husband  proposed  to  give  up  the  whole  busi 
ness  to  a  good  cabinet-maker  and  an  upholsterer, 
who  should  use  their  judgment  and  experience  in 
such  matters. 

"  As  neither  you  nor  I  know  much  about  these  J 

things,  it  will   save  us  a  world  of  trouble,"  he  < 

said.  •; 

Anna  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  at  this  remark.  \ 

A  shadow  instantly  flitted  over  the   brow  of 
Hartley.     It  disappeared  as  quickly  as  it  came, 


but  Anna  saw  it.     The  smile  vanished  from  her 
lips,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.     She  felt, 


82  THE   WIFE. 

that,  because  she  did  not  see  in  all  things  just  as 
he  did,  he  was  annoyed. 

"  Am  I  self-willed  !  Do  I  differ  with  my  nus- 
band  from  caprice  ?'  were  the  self-examining 
questions  of  the  young  wife. 

Hartley  read  her  thoughts,  and  said  quickly,  in 
a  voice  of  affection. 

"You  ought  to  know  more  about   all  these 
matters  than  I  do,  Anna ;  so  you  shall  decide  what          J, 
is  best  to  do."  I; 

"I  wish  to  decide   nothing,  James.      I   only          J 
wish  to  see  and  decide  with  you  in  everything, 
You  don't  know  how  much  it  pains  me  to  differ : 
but  ought  I  to  yield,  passively,  to  what  you  sug 
gest,   if  my  own  judgment  does   not   approve  1         $ 
Ought  we  not  to  see  eye  to  eye,  in  all  things  ?" 

"We  ought,  certainly.  But  I  have  been  so 
long  in  the  habit  of  consulting  my  own  judgment 
about  everything,  that  I  am,  thus  early  in  our 
married  life,  forgetting  that,  now,  there  are  two 
of  us  to  decide  questions  of  mutual  interest.  1 
thank  you  for  so  gently  bringing  this  to  my  mind, 
and  for  doing  so  in  the  very  outset.  Without 
thinking  whether  it  would  meet  your  views  or 
not  to  become  the  mistress  of  a  very  elegant 
house,  I  decided  to  rent  and  fit  up  an  establish 
ment  that  I  already  see  would  have  afforded  more 


A   SLIGHT   MISUNDERSTANDING.  33 

trouble  than  comfort.  Your  wise  objections  pre 
vented  the  occurrence  of  that  evil..  Again  I  have 
decided  to  fit  up  the  house  we  have  taken  in  a 
certain  way,  and  so  decided  without  consulting 
you  about  it.  Here  is  my  second  error,  and  you 
have,  like  a  true  wife,  in  the  gentlest  possible 
way,  given  me  to  see  that  I  was  wrong.  I  thank 
you  for  these  two  lessons,  that  had  much  better  x  j! 
be  given  now  than  at  some  future  time." 

Hartley  bent  down,  and  kissed  the  flushed  cheek 
J         of  his  beautiful  wife  as  he  said  this.  S 

J  "  And  now,  dear,"  he  continued,  "  speak  out 

'<l         freely,  ail   you   have   to   say.     As  before,  your  (j 

judgment  will,  I  doubt  not,  show  that  mine  was 
altogether  at  fault." 

"  Do  not  talk  so,  James,"  returned  Anna,  her 
face  covered  with  blushes.  "  I  desire  only  to  see 
with  you  and  act  with  you." 

"  I  know  that,  dear ;  but  I  am  not  perfect.    I 

\         am  like  all  others,  liable  to  err.    And  it  is  your 

duty  when  you  clearly  see  me  in  error,  to  balance 

that  error  by  declining  to  act  passively  with  me. 

This  I  hope  you  will  do." 

Anna  was  humble-minded,  and  it  pained  her  to 
hear  such  remarks  from  her  husband,  for  whose 
moral  and  intellectual  character  she  had  the  highest 


f 

34<  THE    WIFE. 

regard,  while  of  herself  she  thought  with  meek- 
ness. 

"  Tell  me,  dear,"  Hartley  said,  after  some  time, 
»'  what  is  your  objection  to  my  plan  of  furnishing 
our  house "?"  s 

"  Mainly,  to  the  expense."  > 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  cost  more  than  if  ive         \ 
attended  to  it  ourselves  ?" 

"  It  would,  probably,  cost  double,  and  not  be 
arranged  more  perfectly,  so  far  as  comfort   and 
\  convenience  are  concerned,  than  if  we  were  to 

j>  do  it  ourselves." 

!>  "  I  don't  understand  how  that  could  be." 

"Your  cabinet-maker   and   upholsterer   would 
wish  to  know  if  you  wanted  everything  of  the         J; 
\  best ;  and  you  would  assent.     The  best  would  be, 

no  doubt,  in  their  estimation  the  costliest.     I  saw         ^ 
a  house  once  furnished  in  this  way — a  house  no         ;> 
larger  than  the  one  we  have  taken.     How  much 
do  you  think  it  cost1?" 

"How  much?" 

"  Three  thousand  eight  nundred  dollars." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Yes.     And  I  would  agree  to  furnish  a  houso 
with  just  as  many  comforts  and  t conveniences  on          $ 
half  the  money." 

Hartley's  eyes  were  cast,  thoughtfully,  on  the 


A   SLIGHT   MISUNDERSTANDING.  35 

floor.  It  was  some  moments  before  anything  more 
was  said.  The  wife  was  first  to  speak.  She  did 
so  in  a  timid,  hesitating  voice. 

^  "  Had  we  not  better  understand  each  other  fully 

at  once  ?"  she  said. 

"By  all  means.  The  quicker  we  do  so  the 
better.  Is  there  anything  in  which  we  do  nor 

j         fully  understand  each  other  ?" 

"  Before  we  take  another  step,  ought  not  I,  as 
your  wife,  to  know  exactly  how  you  stand  with 
the  world  in  a  business  and  pecuniary  relation  ? 
I  feel  that  this  is  a  very  delicate  subject  for  a  wife 

£         to  introduce.     But  can  I  know  how  to  be  governed 

;>         in  my  desires  if  I  do  not  know  to  what  extent  they 

'?         can  be  safely  gratified?' 

j»  "  I  trust  there  is  no  desire  that  you  can  enter 

tain,  dear  Anna,  that  I  am  not  able  and  willing  to 
gratify." 

"That  is  altogether  too  vague,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hartley,  forcing  a  smile.  "  As  your  wife,  I  shall 
regulate  the  expense  of  your  household.  I  wish  j. 

to  do  so  wisely ;  and  in  order  to  this  it  is  neces 
sary  for  me  to  have  some  idea  of  your  probable 

'         income." 

<  "  It  ought  to  be  four  or  five  thousand  dollars  a 

year ;  and  will  be,  unless  some  unforeseen  eventi 
transpire  to  affect  our  business." 


36  THE   WIFE. 

Hartley  seenced  to  say  this  with  reluctance. 
And  he  did  so,  really.  The  inquiry  grated  on  hia 
feelings.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Anna  should  have 
felt  confidence  enough  in  him  to  believe  that  he 
would  not  propose  any  expenditure  of  money  be 
yond  what  was  prudent.  He  would  hardly  have 
thought  in  this  way  if  he  had  not  actually  pro- 
posed  the  very  thing  he  tacitly  condemned  her 
for  suspecting  that  he  had  done.  He  was  not, 
^  really,  so  well  established  in  the  world  as  to  be 

able  to  rent  a  house  at  seven  hundred  dollars,  and 
furnish  it  in  a  costly  style ;  nor  even  to  give  a 
carte  blanche  to  a  cabinet-maker  and  upholsterer 
to  tit  up,  according  to  their  ideas,  the  house  he 
had  decided  to  occupy. 

The  moment  he  allowed  himself  to  think  thus 
of  his  honest-minded  wife,  he  felt  an  inward  cold 
ness  toward  her,  which  was  perceived  as  quickly 
in  her  heart,  as  it  was  felt  in  his. 

Conscious  that  Anna  thus  perceived  his  feelings, 
and  unable,  at  the  same  time,  to  rise  above  them, 
and  think  with  generous  approval  of  her  motives, 
he  did  not,  for  some  time,  make  any  effort  to  lif* 
her  up  from  the  unhappy  state  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  One  unkind  thought  was  the  creator  of 
others. 

"  "W  hat  can  she  mean 7"  he  allowed  himself  to 


A    SLIGHT    MISUNDERSTANDING.  37 

ask.  "  Is  it  possible  that  she  has  imagined  I  waj 
rich  ;  and  now,  a  doubt  having  crossed  her  mind, 
can  she  be  trying  to  find  out  the  exact  state  of  my 
affairs  ?  1  never  could  have  dreamed  this !" 

Both  their  eyes  were  cast  upon  the  floor.  They 
sat  silent,  with  hearts  heavily  oppressed.  He  suf 
fering  accusation  after  accusation  to  flow  into  his 

^  mind,  and  lodge  there,  and  she  deeply  distressed, 
from  a  consciousness  of  having  been  misunderstood 

£          in  a  matter  that  she  felt  to  be  of  great  importance, 

I;  and  which  she  had  endeavoured  to  approach  witn 
the  utmost  delicacy. 

Some  minutes  passed,  when  better  feelings  pro- 

!>  duced  better  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  James  Hart 
ley.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  ungenerous,  even 
cruel  in  his  suspicions.  He  imagined  himself  in 
ner  situation,  and  felt  how  deeply  her  heart  must 

J          be  wounded. 

"She  is  right,"  he  said,  inwardly,  lifting  his 
ncad,  with  the  intention  of  saying  that  which 

^ .  should  at  once  relieve  Anna's  mind.  The  first 
thing  that  met  his  eye,  was  a  tear  falling  upon  her 
hand.  His  feelings  reacted  strongly.  Drawing 
an  arm  quickly  about  her  neck,  he  pressed  her 
head  against  his  bosom,  and,  bending  over,  mur 
mured  in  her  ear, 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  so  good  a  wife  as  you, 
4 


38  THE  WIFE. 


dear  Anna  i     What  evil  has  possessed  me,  that  I,          \ 
who  love  you  so  truly,  should  be  the  one  to  make 

«{  you  unhappy  ?     Surely  I  have  been  beside  my- 

\          self." 


J              Anna  released  herself  quickly  from  the  arm  that  j 
had  been  thrown  around  her  neck,  and  turned  up 
to  the  eyes  of  her  husband  a  tearful,  serious,  but 

j|           not  unhappy  face.  j 

"  Oh,  James !  dear  James  !"  she  said,  in  a  low,  !; 

>t          earnest,  eloquent  voice.     "  Why  do   you   speak  \ 

I'  so  ?     I  am  only  weak  and  foolish.     It  is  enough          t 

•J  s 

that  we  love  truly.     If  we  find  it  a  little  difficult,          j; 

^  at  first,  to  understand  each  other  fully,  it  is  no          \ 

jj          great  wonder.     Love,  true  love,  will  in  the  end          \ 
harmonize  all  differences,  and  make  plain  to  each 

^          the   other's  heart.     Let   us   be  patient   and  for- 

s          bearing." 

"  What  you  are ;  but  I  have  much   to  learn,      *   \ 

^          and  you  shall  be  my  tutor."  j 

Hartley  again  kissed  his  bride.     But  she  looked 
serious.  / 

"  Not  so,"  she  returned.     "  It  is  to  your  inteili-          J 
gence  that  I  am  to  look  for  guidance.     I  am  to 
learn  of  you,  not  you  of  me.-"  ;> 

j  "Never  mind,"  was  smilingly  replied,  by  Hart 

ley.     "  We  will  reverse  the  order  for  a  time,  until          ^ 

!;          my  intelligence  of  domestic  affairs  is  laid  upon  a 


ALL    RIGHT    AGAIN.  33 

truer  basis  than  it  seems  now  to  be.     But  I  think 
/          there  will  be  no  harm   in  our  deferring  all  the 

matters  now  under  consideration  until  to-morrow. 
s          Both  of  us  will  then  be  able  to  see  more  clearly, 

feel  less  acutely,  and  determine  more  wisely.     Do 

you  not  think  so  7" 

Anna  gave  a  cheerful  assent  to  this,  and  the 
<          subject  of  conversation  was  changed. 


CHAPTER  IV.  $ 

'?  j> 

£  ALLRIGHTAGAIN. 

CONSCIOUS  that  he  had  wronged  Anna  in  thought 

/          as  well  as  in  feeling,  Hartley's  words,  tones  and 

actions  expressed  towards  her  the  tenderness  that 

this  consciousness  awoke  in  his  bosom.     By  every 

little  art  in  his  power,  he  strove  to  obliterate  from 

>          her  mine*  *  recollection  of  what  had  passed. 

•  As  for  Anna,  she  was  grieved  to  find  that  her 

well-meant,  indeed,  her  conscientious  efforts,  had 

been   misunderstood.     It   would   have   been   the 

easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  remain  pas- 

<          si ve,  anl  let  her  husband  make  all  arrangementi 


40  THE   WIFE. 

J;          as   his  taste  might  dictate.     But   would  this  be 

£          right  ?     That  question  she  could  not  answer  in  the 
affirmative 

\>  "  He   will   think   me    self-willed,"   she   said. 

;>          "  Twice,  already,  have  I  opposed  his  wishes,  and 

how  can  he  help  feeling  that  I  do  this  from  an  in-          j! 
nate  love  of  having  things  only  my  own  way? 
Oh,  if  he  but  knew  my  heart!     If  he  could  see 
how  gladly  I  would  yield  up  everything  to  him, 
if  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  do  so  !" 

While  Anna  thought  thus,  her  husband  was  ex 
periencing  the  good  results  of  her  firmness.  He 
was  closely  examining  his  own  ends  of  action , 
and  asking  himself  many  questions,  the  answers 
to  which  enabled  him  to  see  the  true  nature  of  ^ 
the  ground  upon  which  he  was  standing.  In  his 
heart  he  rendered  his  young  wife  full  justice.  <; 

When  next  they  recurred  to  the  subject  that 
had  awakened  a  discordant  string,  it  was  seen  in  its  ^ 
true  light  by  Hartley.  He  was  the  first  to  bring 
up  the  question  about  which  there  had  been  a  dif 
ference  of  opinion, — felt  much  more  strongly  than 
expressed.  This  was  on  the  succeeding  day. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  what 
took  place,  yesterday,"  he  began  by  saying  in  a 

|j          serious  voice. 

'f  Anna's  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound.    She  looked 


C^r\^.-\.- 


A 

ALL    RIGHT    AGAIN.  41 

earnestly  at  her  husband.     He  could  see  that  her 
lip  slightly  quivered. 

"  You  are  right  and  I  am  wrong,"  he  continued 
"  All  that  concerns  us  should  have  our  mutual  con 
sideration.     As  my  wife,  you  ought  to  know  ex 
actly  how  I  stand  with  the  world,  and  I  should  not, 
|         through  false  pride,  have  any  wish  to  conceal  this 
|.        from  you.     I  have  had  many  serious   thoughts 
|         since  yesterday,  and  to-day  I  feel  that  I  am  a 
wiser  man.     Will  you  forgive  my  ungenerous — n 
"James! — dear  James!    I   cannot  hear  you 
speak  in  this  way,"  interposed   Anna.     "It   is 
wrong  for  you  to  do  so.     Let  what  is  past  be  for 
gotten.    In  the  present  let  us  live  to  good  purpose ; 
to  the  future  let  us  look  with  hope." 

"  Very  well.    Let  the  past  go  with  all  its  lights 
and  shadows.    To-day — that  is,  now — in  the  pre 
sent  time — we  must  act.    What  is  our  first  duty  V9 
Anna  made  no  reply. 

"  We  have  rented  a  house,  and  must  furnish  it." 
Anna  still  remained  silent. 
"  How  shall  it  be  done  ?     I  proposed  one  way. 
But  it  did  not  seem  to  you  to  be  the  right  way, 
and  like  a  true  wife  you  said  so ;  and  gave  a  capi 
tal  reason.    It  was  likely  to  involve  a  waste  of  mo 
ney.    You  suggested,  on  the  threshold  of  our  mar 
ried  life,  thaf  we  ought  to  understand  each  other 
4* 


THE    WIFE. 

I  have  thought  about  that  ever  since.  At 
first  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  talking  to  you 
about  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life — it  seemed  de 
scending  from  a  world  of  romance  to  a  world  of 
vulgar  realities.  Your  intimation  that  you  ought 
to  know  something  about  my  pecuniary  affairs,  I 
confess  did  jar  upon  my  feelings :  and  I  could  not 
help  showing  it.  But,  Anna,  you  were  right. 
;>  How  could  you,  as  you  truly  said,  govern  your- 

j  self  in  your  desires,  or  regulate  your  expenditures, 

if  you  did  not  know  how  far  I  was  able  to  meet 
;>  them?     It  is  right,  then,  that  you  should  know, 

£  precisely,  how  I  stand  with   the  world,  and  in 

telling  you  the  exact  truth,  I  cannot  but  suffer  a 
<  little  from  wounded  pride;   especially  when  the 

large  house  in  Walnut  street  comes  up  in  my 
imagination.  It  is  not  to  be  concealed,  that  I  am 
not  in  a  situation  to  rent  such  a  house,  and  incur 
the  heavy  expenses  that  it  would  involve.  I 
thought  that  I  was — or  rather  imagined,  without 
much  thinking  in  the  premises,  that  I  was  bound 
to  make  my  wife  the  mistress  of  a  very  handsome 
house,  with  costly  furniture,  and  all  that  apper 
tained  to  an  elegant  establishment.  But  my  wife 
had  the  good  sense  to  undeceive  me  in  this,  and  I 
thank  her  most  sincerely  for  it! 

"  To  come  down  to  the  main  point,  then,  with- 


Al.L    MU11T    AGAIN.  43 

\ 

out  further  preliminaries,  I  am,  as  you  know,  a 

partner  in  the  firm  of  R ,  S &  Co.,  one 

of  the  most  flourishing  houses  in  the  city.  But, 
I  am  a  junior  partner,  and  entitled  only  to  a  cer 
tain  dividend  on  the  profits.  This  dividend,  I 

I  have  every  reason  to  believe,  will  be  four  or  five 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  It  may  be  less.  I  ought 

|  not  to  conceal  from  myself  the  fact,  that  a  seriet 
of  heavy  losses  would  reduce  my  income  much 
below  the  sum  named ; — still,  I  do  not  really  ap 
prehend  anything  of  the  kind.  To  all  human 
appearance,  our  customers  are  some  of  the  safest 

I  in  the  country.  But  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
exercise  a  prudent  forethought." 

Anna  listened  with  deep  attention.      She  did 
not  reply,  although  her  husband  paused  some  mo- 

J          ments  to  give  her  an  opportunity  for  doing  so. 

<  "  There  is  every  prospect,  however,"  Hartley 

j  resumed,  "  of  my  acquiring  wealth  rapidly.  Our 
house  has  doubled  its  business  in  the  last  year,  and 
if  we  go  on  increasing  in  the  ratio  that  we  have 
done  for  some  time  past,  there  will  not  be  a  richer 
firm  in  the  city.  My  proportion  of  profit  is  to  be 
increased  to  a  fifth,  at  the  expiration  of  five  years 

£          from  the  time  I  was  taken  into  the  concern.     That 

£          fifth  ought  to  be  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  dollar?." 


44  TliE    WIFE. 

Hartley  again  paused  ;  but  Anna  still  continued 
silent. 

"  I  have  now  told  you  all,  freely,"  he  said. 

"  For  which  I  thank  you !"  Anna  replied  m  a 
serious  voice.     "  I  can  now  move  forward  with-         J 
out  a  feeling  of  insecurity.     I  shall  know  the 
ground  upon  which  I  tread." 

"  You  will  not,  I  hope,  feel  that  there  is  any 
necessity  for  a  very  close  economy."  $ 

t(  All  that  either  you  or  I  want  to  make  our 
condition  as  pleasant  as  would  be  desired,  you  are,         ^ 
I  doubt  not,  fully  able  to  afford.     If  there  is  110 
necessity  for  a  very  close  economy,  there  is  as         \ 
little  for  a  very  free  expenditure.     Under  all  the 
circumstances,  will  it  not  be  wise  for  us  to  set         ^ 
gome  limit  to  our  wants  V9 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  Determine  how  much,  situated  as  we  are,  it 
should  cost  us  in  the  year  to  live."  | 

"  I  fully  agree  with  you.     Suppose,  then,  we 
say  two  thousand  dollars." 

Anna  smiled. 

«  Too  much  or  too  little  ?»  asked  Hartley. 

"  Too  much,  by  at  least  five  or  six  hundre  I 
dollars." 

Hartley  shook  his  head. 

"  We  cannot  live  in  a  style  that  my  business 


ALL    RIGHT    AGAIN.  45 

connexions  require  that  I  should  live  in,  on  four 
teen  or  even  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Fourteen  or  fifteen 
hundred  dollars,  if  prudently  expended,  will  go  a 
great  way.  My  father,  I  know,  supported  his 
family  and  sent  three  of  us  to  school  for  a  number  ; 
of  years  on  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  And  we 
lived  as  respectably  then  as  we  do  now.  We 
have  rented  a  very  good  house.  Let  us  furnish 
it  well.  After  that  is  done,  we  shall  find  the 
lowest  amount  I  have  named  quite  sufficient  for 
•J  us.  If  not,  it  can  be  easily  incre?sed." 

"Very  true.  I  believe  you  see  this  whole 
matter  in  the  best  light.  The  furnishing  of  our 
house,  as  you  have  intimated,  is  now  our  first 
business.  How  and  where  shall  we  begin  ?  As 
<  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  know  nothing  at  all 
about  it." 

"  It  is  but  little  that  7  know,"  replied  Anna, 
"but  there  is  one  on  whose  experience  I  can 
safely  rely — my  mother.     If  you  think  it  best  I 
\         will  consult  her." 

"  That  will  be  the  wisest  course.  A  moment's 
reflection  would  have  taught  me  this  at  first." 

"  My  father  has  usually  left  all  things  relating 
to  the  internal  economy  of  the  family  to  her  judg 
ment." 


46  THE    WIFE. 

"  As  I  should  leave  all  such  things  to  yours," 
said  Hartley,  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  misunderstand  me !"  quickly 
replied  Anna.  "  My  mother,  as  far  as  I  can  recol 
lect,  never  bought  anything  of  importance  without 
referring  to  my  father.  Her  familiarity  with  do 
mestic  affairs  enabled  her  to  judge  correctly  in 
regard  to  what  was  needed ;  but  his  taste  was  con 
sulted,  and  what  he  approved  I  have  noticed  that 
my  mother  almost  always  selected.  This  set  of 
chairs  was  bought  about  a  year  ago.  I  remember 
hearing  mother  say  to  father  one  day, 

" '  If  we  can  afford  it,  I  think  we  should  get  a 
new  set  of  chairs.'  jj 

"  We  were  sitting  in  the  parlour,  here,  whec  / 
she  said  this.  Father  looked  around  and  examineo  > 
the  chairs  attentively  for  a  little  while. 

" ( They  do  look  rather  worn,'  he  answered,  'I 
did  not  notice  it  before.  Our  new  carpets  really 
shame  them.  By  all  means  we  must  have  another 
set.' 

"The  kind  to  be  selected  was  then  talked  about, 
Mother  proposed  a  plainer  and  cheaper  style  of 
chairs,  but  father  thought  they  could  afford  a  set 
(ike  these,  and  mother  acquiesced.  On  the  next 
day  they  went  together  to  a  chair-maker's.  I  ac 
companied  them.  Four  or  five  different  patterns 


ALL    RIGHT    AGAIN  47 

shown;  but  mother  made  no  choice,  until 
she  heard  father  express  himself  very  much 
pleased  with  these.  Without  the  slightest  ap 
pearance  of  being  governed  by  his  taste,  I  saw  that 
she  inclined,  gradually,  to  a  choice  of  those  my 
father  had  liked,  and  when  she  finally  said  which 
she  liked  best,  it  was  done  so  delicately,  that  I  am 
sure  father  did  not  suspect  that  his  taste  had 
guided  hers.  And  yet  it  was  so — or  so  appeared 
to  me.  I  have  witnessed  the  same  deference  to 
his  taste  frequently  since.  Now,  just  as  my  father 
leaves  domestic  affairs  to  my  mother's  judgment, 
do  I  wish  that  you  would  leave  them  to  mine ; 
and  just  as  my  mother  consults  my  father's  taste, 
do  I  wish  to  consult  yours.  Shall  it  not  be  so  P>  I 

"  It  shall !"  was  Hartley's  instant  reply,  kiss 
ing,  with  warmth  and  tenderness,  the  sweet  UJM 
of  his  young  wife,  as  he  spoke. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HOUSE      FURNISHING. 

ON  the   next   day,  Hartley,  accompanied   by 
Anna  and  her  mother,  started  out  to  select  furni- 
ture.     It  must  be  told  that  Anna  did  not  defer  to 
the  taste  of  her  husband  quite  so  fully  as  she  had 
I  represented  her  mother  as  doing  to  Mr.  Lee.     At 

the  cabinet-maker's,  there  were  several  pieces  of 
furniture  that  she  induced  him  to  purchase,  not 
withstanding  he  had  expressed  a  decided  preference 
for  a  different  style  of  the  same  article.  The  rea 
son  may  be  easily  guessed.  A  difference  of,  per- 
J  haps,  fifty  dollars  in  a  sofa ;  as  much  more  in  a 

s  set  of  chairs,  c~  «.  pair  of  pier  tables,  not  any  bet 

ter  for  the  additional  price,  but  only  a  little  more 


j  showy,  was  the  only  cause  for  this  want  of  defer-         > 

ence  to  her  husband's  taste  on  the  part  of  Mrs.         j 
Hartley. 

Sometimes,   the   very   natural   desire  to  have         \ 
things  his  own  way,  and  the  disposition  telt  to 
make  a  show,  caused  Hartley  to  f°el  chafed.    But. 
his  good  sense,  aided  by  the  experience  he  had 
gained  since  marriage,   brought   his   mind   back         <; 
again  to  its  true  balance.     He  could  not  but  ap-         «; 

(48)  S 


HOUSE    FURNISHING.  49 

prove  the  motives  of  his  wife,  and  acknowledge 
that  she  was  acting  with  prudence. 

After  their  parlour,  and  a  part  of  their  chamber 
furniture,  including  carpets,  had  been  selected, 
Hartley  gave  up  all  the  rest  into  the  hands  of 

5          Anna. 

s 

s  In  about  two  weeks  the  house  was  ready ;  the 

jl  whole  work  of  furnishing  it  having  gone  on  under 
the  direct  supervision  and  instruction  of  Anna, 
aided  by  the  wise  counsel  of  her  mother.  When 
all  was  completed,  the  young  couple  took  posses- 

5  sion  of  their  new  home.  Hartley  was  delighted 
with  everything.  The  parlours  were  really  beau 
tiful. 

"  That  sofa  is  much  handsomer  than  I  thought 
it  was,"  he  said,  looking  at  it  with  pleasure.  "  It 

had  a  common  appearance  to  me  in  Mr. 'a 

wareroom."  J 

"Because  you  saw  it  there  in  contrast  with 

more  showy  ones,"  returned  Anna.     "  I  think  it 

a  real  beauty,  myself.    I  wouldn't  ask  a  better  one.*5 

"  Nor  I,  now  that  1  can  see  what  it  really  is, 

jj          These  chairs,  too,  are  good  enough  for  any  one. 

I  don't  know  that  a  neater  pattern  could  be  found.  < 


In  fact,  everything  looks  about  two  hundred  per 
cent,  better  than  I  had  any  idea  that  it  would." 
"  If  we  cannot  be  happy  in  a  house  furnished 


<  • 

5^  THE   WIPE. 

Mrs.  Riston  shook  hei  head. 

"You  are  a  silly  child,  Anna;  but  you  will 
know  better  after  awhile.  It  makes  me  down 
right  angry  with  you  every  time  I  think  about 
that  splendid  house  in  Walnut  street,  which  you 
were  foolish  enough  to  refuse.  But  what  else 
have  you  got?  Solar  lamps  and  candelabras! 
Why,  in  the  name  of  Phoebus !  didn't  you  have 
the  gas  brought  into  the  house  ?" 

"  We  did  talk  about  it ;  but  concluded  to  defer 
it  for  the  present.  It  would  have  increased  the 
cost  of  furnishing  considerably." 

"  Cost  of  furnishing !     Nonsense  !     Your  hus 


band  is  able  enough  to  do  it." 


"  That  may  be,  but  it  is  not  always  the  best 
way  to  expend  money  too  freely.     We  both  prefer 
to  gain  a  little  more  experience  than  we  have,          J' 
before  we  dash  out  too  boldly." 

"  If  you  don't  dash  out  now,  you  will  never  do 
f,         it.     Take  my  word  for  that." 

"No  matter.  Happiness  in  this  life  doesnt 
consist  in  dashing  out.  I,  for  one,  shall  be  far 
happier  in  this  quiet  little  nook,  than  I  would  be  j, 
if  I  were  mistress  of  a  palace." 

Mrs.  Riston  gave  her  head  an  incredulous  toss, 
and  said, 

"  All  that   is  well  enough — very  good   talk. 


HOUSE   FURNISHING.  53 

But  I  do  not  believe  that  you  are  so  far  superior 
to  the  rest  of  your  sex  as  not  to  be  captivated  by 
elegance  and  splendour." 

"  I  could  have  had  a  very  elegant  house  and 
j|          furniture  of  the  most  costly  kind,  if  I  had  said  but 

the  word." 

£  *£  And  a  great  fool  you  were  for  not  saying  the 

j;          word.     You  will  repent  of  it  one  of  these  days." 

Anna  could  not  help  smiling  at  her  friend's 
j          earnestness. 

"  A  rare  display  you  would  make,  ho  doubt," 
she  remarked,  playfully. 

"Wouldn't  I!  If  I  had  the  purse-strings  I'd 
go  to  housekeeping  to-morrow.  Then  I'd  show 
you  style  !  I  'd  make  Philadelphians  open  their  <; 

eyes." 

Anna  laughed  outright. 

"  You  may  laugh.  But  I  'd  do  it !  Mr.  Riston 
has  been  speering  at  me  for  the  last  three  weeks 
about  getting  into  a  house  of  our  own.  I'm  half 
inclined  to  say  yes." 

"  Why  don't  you  *» 

"I  think  I  will ;  but  on  one  condition — that  I 
have  full  liberty  to  choose  a  house  and  fuinish  it 
just  as  I  please." 

«  Will  Mr.  Riston  agree  to  that  P 
5* 


f4  THE   WJFE.  > 

!] 

"  It 's  the  only  condition  I  '11  give  him  a  chance 
of  agreeing  to.  If  he  makes  a  slave  of  me,  I  am 
determined  to  have  a  palace  for  my  prison." 


"  Whether  your  husband  can  afford  a  palace  or 


not?" 


"  Afford ."  Mrs.  Riston's  lip  curled.     "  I  hate 
to  hear  a  woman  utter  that  word !     Afford,  in 
ji         deed !     I'll  make  him  afford  it." 

The  manner  in  which  this  was  said  sent  a  chi 
through  Mrs.  Hartley.  She  shrunk  back,  invol 
untarily,  a  pace  or  two  from  her  visiter.  / 

"  But  come,"  resumed  Mrs.  Riston,  "  let  me  see          J; 
your  chambers.     There  is  nothing  very  wonderful 
here." 

Anna   led  the  way  up   stairs.     Not   a  single          ;» 
article  in  the  chambers  met  the  lady's  approval.  ^ 

"  Cheap — cheap — cheap,"   she   said,  glancing          ;! 
around.     "  Ah  me  !  when  will  women  get  sense ? 
Everything  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.     Have  you  no 
taste,  Mrs.  Hartley?     No  love  for  the  beautiful ! 
Has  elegance  no  charm  for  your  eyes  ?" 

"  No  one  can  love  external  beautiful  forms  more  $ 
truly  than  I  do,"  Anna  replied,  seriously.  "  But 
at  the  same  time,  I  love  moral  beauties.  When 
there  is  a  just  relation  between  the  elegancies  of 
life  and  the  ability  to  possess  these  elegancies,  the 
external  beautiful  forms  are  but  the  correspondents 


> 


A    PRUDENT    COURSE    THE    WISEST. 


of  moral  beauties.  But,  if  this  correspondence 
£  dots  not  exist,  there  can  be  no  real  enjoyment,  no 
£  matter  how  beautiful  the  objects  may  be  with 
sj  which  we  are  surrounded." 

"  All  Greek  to  me,  my  dear  !     Give  me  the  ex 
ternal   beauties,  and  you   may  content   yourself 
s          with  the  moralities,  or  whatever  else   you  may 
choose  to  call  them." 

Anna  made  no  further  attempt  to  correct  Mrs. 
Riston's  false  notions.     She  saw  that  it  was  useless. 


She  permitted  her  to  find  fault  with,  and  scold 
about  everything   in   the   house,  and  when   she          j 
Anally  took  her  departure,  bade   her  a  smiling 
good  morning. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    PRUDENT    COURSE    THE    WISEST.  <, 

\  I; 

\  ONE  day,  some  three  or  four  weeks  after  Hart-  '«' 

ley  had  commenced  housekeeping,  a  member  of 
the  firm  of  R  --  ,  S  -  &  Co.  said  to  the  senior 
partner, 


56  THE   WIFE. 


"  I  observe  that  James  checked  out,  yesterday, 

o  thousand  dollars." 

"  Two  thousand  dollars  !     Are    ou  sure  V9 


'<          two  thousand  dollars." 


"  Strange  I  what  can  he  want  with  that  sum  of 
>          money  ?" 

"  You  know  he  ii  married." 

"Yes.  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  two 
thousand  dollars  ?" 

"  He  has  gone  to  housekeeping." 

^  "That  explains  it.     He  mentioned  to  me  his         jj 

intention  of  doing  so  some  weeks  ago."  $ 

"But  don't  you  think  he  is  pretty  free  with 
money  ?     A  young  man  like  him  should  not  ex-         s 
pect  to  dash  out  in  very  elegant  style." 

"True.  But  it  is  a  question  whether  two 
thousand  dollars  will  furnish  a  house  very  ele 
gantly." 

"  Two   thousand  dollars  will  not  go  very  far 
towards  accomplishing  that  end,  certainly.     But,          ' 
it  is  more  than  probable,  that  the  major  part  of  his 
furniture  has  been  bought  on  a  regular  credit  of          I 
six  months,  and  that  the  two  thousand  dollars  have 
been  taken  to  pay  for  sundries  not  included  in  the 
bills  for  cabinet-ware  and  carpets." 

"  That  may  be.  At  any  rate,  it  will  be  j-ust  as 
well  for  us  to  know  alJ  about  this  matter.  SUJH 


A   PRUDENT   COURSE    THE   WISEST.  57 

!poee  you  make  some  excuse  to  call  in  upon  the 
young  couple  some  evening  this  week,  and  see 

<  how  they  look." 

« I  will  do  so." 

]  "  Most  sincerely  do  I  hope  that  you  will  find 

all  right. — That  a  just  regard  to  James's  situation 

\         in  life  will  be  apparent  in  everything  around  them. 

\  Too  often  it  is  the  case,  that,  so  soon  as  a  young 
man  is  taken  into  business,  he  imagines  his  fortune 
made,  and  forthwith  begins  to|spend  money  as 
freely  as  if  it  were  water.  Of  this  weakness  I 
never  should  have  suspected  Hartley.  But,  there 
is  no  telling  what  influence  his  wife,  if  she  have  a 
love  of  show  and  extravagance,  may  have  over 
him.  If  any  game  of  this  kind  is  to  be  played, 
we  will  have  to  throw  him  over  the  wall  the  first 
chance  that  offers." 

"  Better,  I  think,  to  remonstrate  with  him  first. 
If  incorrigible,  he  will  have  to  be  cut  off." 

"  All  this,  however,  is  assuming  that  he  is  run 
ning  wild  already.  Let  us  be  certain  of  this  first. 
He  has  always  showed  himself  a  prudent  young 
man." 

"  So  he  has.  And  it  is  hardly  fair  to  suspect 
him  too  strongly  upon  the  evidence  we  now  have 

<  before  us.     Two  thousand  dollars  may  be  for  the 
whole  expense  of  furnishing  his  house.     If  so,  I 


58  THE   WIPE. 

do  not  think  he  has  exceeded  a  prudent  limit, 
when  it  is  considered  that  his  dividend  on  the 
profit  ought  to  reach  four  or  five  thousand  dollari 
per  annum,  as  business  now  is." 

As  determined  upon,  one  of  the  partners  called 
in  upon  Hartley,  and  sat  for  half  an  hour  with  him, 
on  the  plea  of  a  conference  about  some  matter  of         •{ 
business  forgotten  during  the  day.  s 

"  Did  you  see  Hartley,  last  evening  ?"  asked  the 
other  member  of  the  firm,  when  they  met  next 
morning.  <; 

'  "  Yes." 

"Well1?  What  was  the  result?" 

"All  right,  I  should  think." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  What  is  the  appearance 
or  things  ?" 

"  Elegant." 

"Elegant?" 

"  Yes ;  but  not  too  costly." 

"  How  were  the  parlours  furnished?" 

••  With  admirable  taste,  considering  the  outlay, 
which  could  not  have  been  extravagant." 

;<  I  am  really  gratified.  Then,  the  two  thou 
sand  dollars  must  have  been  to  meet  the  whole 
cost  of  their  furniture  ?" 

•'  Yes.     If  the  rest  of  the  house  be  in  keeping 


A   PRULENT   COUXSE   THE   WISEST. 

with  the  parlours,  which  is  EU;  doubt  the  case,  two 
thousand  dollars  is  ample." 

"  I  thought  James  had  too  much  go^J  cense  to  be 
'<;         led  aside  from  prudence.     Did  you  s«?«  his  wife  *" 

«  Yes." 

"  How  did  you  like  her  ?>' 

jj  «  yerv  mucn.     I  should  call  her  a  ch*:.ictn£ 

voung  creature." 

"  Is  she  handsome  ?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"And  a  lady?" 

"  If  she  is  not  one,  ladies  are  hard  to  find.  Her 
race  is  very  sweet ;  and,  although  she  looks  young, 
there  is  nothing  childish  about  her." 

"  Who  is  she  ?» 

"  The  daughter  of  old  Mr.  Lee,  in  the 

;         Insurance  Company." 

"  Ah !  Wasn't  there  a  good  deal  of  talk  about 
her  refusing  a  very  advantageous  offer  some  time 
ago?" 

"  Yes.     She  refused  the  hand  of  Gardiner." 

"  So  she  di  j.  I  remember  now  ;  and  that  "i, 
01  opposition  to  a  good  many  lady  friends,  ap 
plauded  her  course.  She  is  a  sensible  girl,  I 
take  it." 

"  So  do  I.     Sensible  for  r eruinng  Gardiner  ai:£ 
accepting  Hartley." 
^ 
' 


I 

60  THE   WIFE. 

•     .        "  Marriage   usually   makes  or  mars  a  young          $ 
man's  fortune,"  said  the  other.     "  I  am  happy  to 
find  that  in  our  young  friend's  case,  the  former 
result  is  likely  to  occur.     If  he  has  a  prudent, 
sensible  wife,  there  need  be  no  fear  of  him." 

"  That  he  has,  I  am  ready  to  vouch,"  was  con 
fidently  replied. 

It  was  true,  as  Hartley's  senior  associates  in 
business  had  supposed.  Two  thousand  dollars 
paid  all  the  bills  that  were  made  by  Hartley  in 
furnishing  his  house.  Had  he  not  been  governed 
by  his  wife's  better  judgment  in  matters  of  domes-  4 
tic  economy,  the  cost  woulol  have  been  nearly 
aoubled.  The  way  in  which  this  would  have 
!;  affected  his  standing  in  the  eyes  of  the  principal 
{  members  of  his  firm,  the  reader  can  easily  guess. 
Of  all  this  careful  observation  of  his  conduct, 
Hartley  had  not  the  most  remote  suspicion.  Had 
he  married  a  woman  whose  love  of  display  had 
seconded  his  desire  to  make  an  imposing  ap 
pearance  in  the  world,  the  first  intimation  of  his 
error  would  have  been,  in  all  proba.  ility,  a  notice  '< 
that  he  must  curtail  his  expenses  at  least  one-half, 
or  leave  the  firm  of  which  he  was  a  partner.  The 
mortification  that  this  would  have  occasioned  need  ? 
\  not  be  described.  So  far  from  a  fine  house  and 
costly  furniture  producing  happiness,  they  would 
have  made  both  himself  and  wife  miserable. 


J 


I 

CHAPTER 


\  AFOOLISHWIIE. 

f  "1  TELL  you,  Mr.  Riston,  it's  no  use  to  talk  to 

j          me.     As  I  have  told  you  a  hundred  times  before, 

I  am  not  going  to  let  you  nor  anybody  else  make 

a  slave  of  me." 

"  But,  Ellen,  this  is  all  folly.     As  a  wife,  you 
{         should  be  willing  to   discharge   a  wife's   duties. 

You  cannot  expect  your  husband  to  be  contented 

without  having  some  place  in  the  world  that  to 


hkn  is  really  home." 

<;  "No  doubt  it  would  content  his  heart  vastly  to 

see  me  drudging  away  from  morning  till  night  in 
the  kitchen." 

"Don't  talk  so  like  a  silly  woman,  Ellen!  You 
j;         know  better."  ;> 

"I  am  silly  enough  in  your  eyes,  no  doubt. 
A  woman  is  usually  estimated  by  everybody  elie 
higher  than  she  is  by  her  husband." 

"  If  so,  it  is  easily  explained,"  Mr.  Riston  2-iid, 
>         in  a  slightly  sarcastic  tone. 
f;  "  How  is  it  explained  ?"  asked  *he  wife,  with  a 

lock  of  defiance. 

6  'fii> 


r 


62  THE   WIFE. 

'*  Because  he  knows  her  best,"  was  coolly  re 
plied, 

't  "  >*?.  Riston,  I  won't  allow  anybody  to  insult 

me!" 

"  Ivor  will  I,  Ellen.  If  any  one  should  insult 
J;  you,  let  me  know,  and  I  will  resent  it  on  the  in- 
;|  Btant." 

"Your  language  and  manner  are  insufferable, 
sir!" 

"As  is  your  un wife-like  conduct,  madam !    I 

have  borne  with  you  until  all  patience  is  exhausted. 

I  am  sick  to  death  of  this  way  of  living,  and  want 

to  £et  into  a  house  of  my  own.     But  you,  from  a 

5          sol  fob  love  of  your  own  ease,  refuse  to  perform 


the  solemn  pledges  into  which  you  entered  at 
marriage.  Your  regard  is  all  for  yourself,  and  in 
no  degree  for  your  husband." 

"And  pray,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Riston  with 
spirit,  "in  what  direction  turns  your  regard?  Is 
it  towards  me,  or  towards  yourself?  Just  to  grati 
fy  your  peculiar  notions,  you  would  make  your 
w;fe  a  domestic  slave.  Is  that  so  very  unselfish* 
Humph .  You  had  better  take  the  beam  out  of 
your  own  eye,  before  you  endeavour  to  get  th* 
mote  out  of  mine." 

"  Ellen !"  and  Mr.  Riston's  voice  was  sterner, 
and  his  countenance  darker  than  usual — "  All  this 


A   FOOLISH   WIFE.  63 

LS  the  worst  and  vainest  of  trifling.  For  four 
years  I  have  yielded  to  your  pleasure  in  this  mat 
ter.  It  has  been  a  source  of  constant  disturbance 

j;         between  us.     I  am  resolved  that  it  shall  not  re-  <j 

i  main  so  any  longer.  You  may  do  as  you  like. 
But  my  course  is  determined.  I  shall  go  to  house 
keeping.  If  it  does  not  suit  yoi*  to  become  the 
mistress  of  my  house,  I  shall  hire  a  competent 
person,  and  confide  to  her  the  care  of  it." 

'/  "Oh  dear!"  Mrs.  Riston  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Do  not  think,  for  a  moment,  that,  in  this  mat 
ter,  I  am  merely  blustering,"  the  husband  said, 
with  unusual  seriousness.  "It  has  taken  me  a 

I;  long  time  to  resolve  upon  this  step.  I  have  looked 
at  the  subject  in  every  light.  I  have  regarded 
your  feelings  and  wishes  up  to  the  point  where 
such  a  regard  ceases  to  be  a  virtue.  Now  I  feel  ;I 

that  a  woman  who  acts  as  j;ou  do,  deserves  not  to  rl 

be  considered  a  moment  by  the  man  whom,  in  her 
marriage  vows,  she  has  cruelly  deceived.  I  have 
already  chosen  a  house." 

"  What !"  Mrs.  Riston  started  to  her  feet  with 
a  countenance  deeply  flushed. 

"  It  is  true,  as  I  have  told  you,"  calmly  replied 
her  husband.  "I  have  selected  a  house.  If  it 
does  not  meet  your  approval,  I  will  defer  to  your 
wishes  in  the  choice  of  one  that  does,  if  you  think 


64  THE   WIFE. 

proper  to  join  me  in  doing  what  I  have  told  you 
it  is  my  intention  to  do." 

"I  join  you!"  half  shrieked  the  wife,  bitter 
contempt  and  defiance  in  her  tones.  "  I  join  you, 
indeed!  No!  I  will  die  before  any  man  shall 
force  me  into  his  arbitrary  measure.  You  have 
mistaken  your  woman,  let  me  tell  you." 

"And  you  your  man,"  was  coldly  returned. 

A  dead  silence  succeeded.  The  opposition  and 
bickering  of  years  had  broken  out  at  last  into  an 
open  rupture.  Mr.  Riston's  patience  could  hold 
out  no  longer  against  the  selfishness  of  his  wife, 
that  did  not  permit  her  to  regard  his  wishes  or 
comforts  in  the  least  degree.  Often  before  had 
he  assumed  an  air  of  determination,  in  the  hope 
that  she  would  yield  to  his  wishes,  but  with  no 
good  effect.  Now,  the  determination  was  not  as 
sumed,  but  real.  Mr.  Biston  had  looked  around 
him  for  a  house,  and  had  selected  one  with  the 
fixed  intention  of  renting  and  furnishing  it,  unless 
his  wife  should  consent  to  go  to  housekeeping, 
and  desire  a  different  situation  or  style  of  house 
for  a  residence.  The  wife  did  not  believe  that  he 
was  in  earnest ;  but  in  this  she  was  mistaken.  No 
good  had  resulted  from  yielding,  on  his  part.  He 
was  at  last  resolv  ?d  to  use  a  different  kind  of  in- 
?  fluence. 


A   FOOLISH   WIFE.  65 

Mrs.  Riston,  after  the  last  remark  of  her  hus- 
oand,  turned  her  back  to  him,  and  moved  her 
chair  so  that  her  person  would  not  fall  within  the 
range  of  his  eye.  It  was  in  the  evening,  and  both 
sat  moody  and  silent  until  bed-time.  Mrs.  Riston 
was  indignant  j  and  Mr.  Riston  firmly  resolved  t3  v 

do  what  he  had  threatened. 

On  the  next  morning,  before  descending  to 
breakfast,  he  said  in  a  very  calm  voice, — they  were 
the  first  words  spoken  to  his  wife  since  the  pre 
vious  evening — 

"  Ellen,  I  wish  you  to  consider  all  that  I  have 
said,  as  in  earnest.  I  have  the  key  of  a  house  in  $ 

Ninth   street,  through  which  I  went   yesterday.  '< 

\         That  house  I  shall  rent,  unless  you  choose  another, 

jj         and  consent  to  go  with  me  into  it.     I  will  not 

compel  you  to  go  into  any  house  that  you  do  not  I; 

like ;  but,  if  you  do  not  yourself  select  a  house,  I  \ 

will  take  the  one  of  which  I  have  the  key,  and 
furnish  it." 

<  Mrs.  Riston  made  no  reply.     She  did  not  even 

!j          look  towards  her  husband. 


"  I  will  give  you  three  days  to  make  up  yom 
\          mind.     After  that,  if  you  still  decide  to  persevere 
in  your  present  course,  I  shall  certainly  take  mine , 
j;         and  the  evil  resulting  from  it,  must  rest  upon  yom 
own  head." 
6» 


66  THE   WIFE. 

The  breakfast  bell  rang  at  the  moment,  and  Mr. 
Riston   left   the   chamber  and  descended   to  the          'I 
dining  room.     His  wife  remained  behind,  and  did 
not   make   her  appearance   at   table   during  the 
meal 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Riston,  how  do  you  do  ?     I  am          ; 
delighted  to  see  you  so  early  this  morning.     But 
how  grave  you  look!     What  has  happened,  n.y          I; 
dear  ?" 

This  was  said  by  Mrs.  Leslie,  one  of  the  lady's 
particular  friends,  upon  whom  Mrs.  Riston  called          j 
to  communicate  her  troubles,  as  soon  after  break 
fast  as  she  thought  it  right  to  make  a  call. 

"  0   dear,  Mrs.  Leslie !  I  am  in   a  world   of 
trouble  this  morning." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  husband  of  mine,  the  perverse  crea 
ture  !  has  got  into  one  of  his  tantrums  again." 

"  Has  he  ?" 

"  Indeed  he  has,  and  he  seems  worse  than  ever.          £ 
He  does  lead  me  such  a  life  !" 

"  What  new  crotchet  is  in  his  head  ?" 

"INew?  I  wish  to  goodness  it  was  something          ;> 
new  !     But  it 's  that  old  notion  about  housekeep 
ing  ;  and  he  is  stark,  staring  mad  about  it." 

"Oh  dear!" 

"I  declare,  he  worries  the  very  life  out  of  me, 


r* 

A   FOOLISH   WIFE.  67 

notwithstanding  I  have  told  him  ever  and  crver 
again  that  if  he  talked  until  doomsday  about  it,  I 
would  not  consent  to  become  his  slave.  Go  to 
.  housekeeping,  indeed !  I  have  seen  too  many  wo 
men  in  that  beautiful  situation  to  wish  to  get  into 
it  myself." 

"  If  your  mind  is  made  up  about  it,  why  give 
£  .      yourself  so  much  trouble  1    It  is  only  necessary 
I         to  stand  by  your  resolution,  and  he  cannot  help 
himself." 

"  So  I  have  believed.  But,  would  you  have 
'<;  thought  it !  he  is  actually  going  to  rent  a  house 
>f  and  furnish  it  all  himself."  j 

\  "  But  he  can't  put  you  into  it  by  bodily  force." 

1;  "  No,  but  he  says  he  will  hire  a  housekeeper  to 

take  charge  of  it  if  I  don't  go  with  him." 
't  "  Humph !     That  would  be  a  pretty  piece  of 

!J         business." 

"  Would'nt  it !" 

"  But  you  don't  believe  he  is  in  earnest  ?" 
"  I  am  afraid  he  is.     I  never  saw  him  in  such 
t  temper.     I  declare,  his  manner  frightened  me." 
Mrs.   Leslie   did    not    know   what   to  reply. 

V While  she  sat  with  her  eyes  still  upon  the  floor 
in  a  musing  attitude,  her  friend  resumed. 

"  If  he  does  really  mean  to  push  things  to  ex 
tremities,   I  shall  have  to  give  in,   because  I 


!;          68  THE  WII-E.  s 

would'nt  have  people  think,  for  the  world,  that 
we  did  not  live  upon  the  most  affectionate  terms. 
I  am  too  proud  to  have  myself  the  town  talk. 
Hut,  if  he  once  gets  the  upper  hand  of  me,  there  is 
I'  no  telling  how  far  he  may  play  the  tyrant.  That 

\  is  the  difficulty  in  the  way,  even  after  I  have  con 

quered  my  own  will,  which  is  no  light  task." 

"  Yes,  that  is  to  be  well  considered.     If  you      .   | 
give  way  an  inch  to  some  men,  they  will  certainly 
exact  the  ell." 

"  And  my  husband  is  just  one  of  those  kind  of          '•', 
men." 

"  You  must  yourself  manage,  if  you  do  give  an          I; 


inch,  to  take  three  ells  from  somewhere  else." 

"  That 's  it  exactly,  Mrs.  Leslie !     That  is  just 
what  I  have  thought  of  doing.     And  it  is  to  con-         jj 
suit  you  about  this  that  I  have  called  in.     But,  the 
first  question  to  settle  is,  shall  I  yield  ?" 

"  I  think  you  have  taken,  already,  a  very  sen-         ;> 
sible  view  of  that  subject.     You  do  not  wish  to  be 
the  town  talk." 
J  "  No,  I  do  not.     I  dread  that  only  a  little  more 

than  giving  up  to  my  husband,  a  thing  that  a  woman 
of  spirit  never  should  do  if  it  is  possible  to  avoid 
it.     If  the  matter  could  be  kept  between  .uim  and          $ 
roe  alone,  I  would  die  before  I  would  yield  an 


A  FOOLISH  WIFE.  69 

inch;  but  in  this  movement  he  has  ccanpletely 


your  wishes." 


o  "  Let  me   see,"  mused  Mrs.  Riston.     "  How 

shall  I  thwart  him  ?  How  shall  I  get  the  com 
plete  upper  hand  ?  Where  are  the  three  ells  to 
come  from  ?  *  Yes,  I  think  I  have  it.  He  loves 
money,  and  hates  to  spend  it.  And  I  love  it, 
too,  but  only  to  spend  it  freely.  If  I  go  to  house 
keeping,  I  must  have  a  splendid  establishment." 
"  That  9a  it,  dear !  That  >s  your  game  !  Put 

$  your  hand  deep  into  his  pocket.  If  he  will  push 
matters  so  far — if  the  thing  must  be  done,  take 
care  to  have  it  done  as  you  like." 


outgeneralled  me."  |> 

"  So  it  would  seem,  if  he  means  really  to  do 
what  he  says.  Suppose  you  let  him  goon  a  little 
further.  If  he  does  take  a  house  and  furnish  it, 
you  can  become  its  mistress  at  the  last  pinch,  and 
so  avoid  the  exposure  you  dread." 

"  Yes,  but  look  here,  Mrs.  Leslie.  If  I  consent 
to  go  to  housekeeping — if  I  give  that  one  inch,  I 
must  have  my  three  ells,  you  know.  Now  where 
are  they  to  come  from  ?" 

"  That  is  for  you  to  determine." 
u  With  the  assistance  of  your  advice." 
"  It  shall  be  freely  given.     But  I  want  a  small 
portion  of  ground  to  stand  upon.     Some  clue  to 


70  THE   WIFE. 

«  Trust  me  for  that.  He  said  if  I  didn't  like 
the  house  he  had  taken,  I  was  at  liberty  to  choose 
one  for  myself." 

"  Did  he  ?     Then  you  have  him." 

"  Havn't  I  ?    If  I  am  to  be  a  slave,  I  will  choose 
a  splendid  captivity.     He  shall  pay  for  it.     Be- 
\          fore  a  twelvemonth  rolls  around,  if  he  isn't  sick 
to  death  of  housekeeping,  I  am  no  prophet." 

Instead  of  wisely  seeking  to  turn  the  current  of          s 
Mrs.  Riston's  thoughts  into  a  better  channel,  Mrs. 


Leslie  encouraged  her  folly,  and  confirmed  her  in 


j^coiic  ciivAvuiagcu.  11  ci   iuii  y  ,  anu  v^uinn  mcu  nci   tu  <, 

the  mad  resolution  she  had  taken 


CHAPTER  Vm.  J 

A    SAD    PICTURE    OF    DOMESTIC     LIFE.  <; 

MR.  RISTON  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  din-          ^ 
ner  time,  preferring  to  get  something  to  eat  at  one 
of  the  public  dining  rooms,  to  meeting  his  perverse- 
minded  wife.    He  did  not  know  that  she  was  pre 
pared  to  give  him  a  much  pleasanter  reception 
than  he  had  every  reason  to   believe  that  she          \ 
would.  \ 


A    SAD    PICTURE    OF    DOMESTIC    LIFE.  7) 


Evening  came,  and  the  unhappy  husband  —for 
|  unhappy,  though  resolute,  he  really  was — took 
his  way  homeward.  When  he  entered  his  board 
ing-house,  he  went  to  the  public  parlour,  and  sat 
down  there  to  await  the  ringing  of  the  tea  bell, 
instead  of  going  up  to  his  own  room.  At  the  sup 
per  table  he  met  his  wife  for  the  first  time  since 
morning.  They  sat  side  by  side.  But  he  did  not 
speak  to  her,  nor  even  look  into  her  face.  He 
was  not  a  little  surprised  when  she  asked,  in  the 
ordinary  indifferent  tone  with  which  she  usually 
spoke  to  him,  why  he  had  not  come  home  to  din- 
«;  ner.  He  replied  that  he  was  very  busy,  and  pre 


ferred  dining  down  town.     Mrs.  Riston  did  not 
believe  this  of  course.     It  was  acting  on  his  part 
,;          as  well  as  hers,  and  both  understood  that  it  was.          jj 
But  Mr.  Riston  felt  puzzled. 

After  tea  the  husband  and  wife  retired  to  their 
own  apartment.  Mr.  Riston  made  no  attempt  to 
introduce  the  subject  about  which  they  had  jarred 
BO  heavily  on  the  night  before ;  but  his  wife  dex 
terously  brought  it  in,  and  then  declared  that, 
rather  than  there  should  be  the  exposure  he  threat 
ened,  she  would  submit,  though  with  great  reluc 
tance.  A  few  convenient  tears  watered  this  con 
cession.  Mr.  Riston  was  softened. 

"I  cannot  yield  the  point  of  going  to  house- 


%  CUE   WIFE. 

'/  keeping,"  he  said.     "  But  I  am  very  willing  to 

;j  defer  to  your  judgment  in  the  selection  of  a  house, 

!j  and  to  let  your  taste  govern  in  furnishing  it." 

"  Where  is  the  house  you  have  fixed  upon  ?w 
jj          asked  Mrs.  R. 

"  In  Ninth  street." 
"  What  kind  of  a  house  is  it  ?» 
"A  very  good  house.     I   have   no  doubt  but 
that  you  will  like  it.     To-morrow  we  will  walk 
round  there.     I  have  the  key." 

Mrs.  Riston  thought  it  just  as  well  to  reserve 
her  objections  until  she  saw  the  house,  for  then 
she  could   have  something  real  upon  which  to 
(  ground  them. 

On  the  next  day,  after  breakfast,  in  apparently 
a  very  good  humour,  the  lady  started  out  with  her 
husband  to  visit  the  house  he  had  pitched  upon. 

"  How  much  is  the  rent  ?M  she  thought  propor 
o  ask  on  the  way. 

"  Three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  replied  Mr. 
£  Riston. 

"It  can't  be  much  of  a  house  at  thsf  price," 
quietly  remarked  the  lady. 

"  I  think  it  a  very  excellent  house.     In  some 
situations  it  would  rent  for  five  hundred  dollars." 
Mrs.  Riston  said  no  more,  but  walked  on.    Her 
mind  was  made  up  as  to  the  game  she  would  play. 


s  w-1 

J  A    SAD    P1CTUK.E    OF    DOMESTIC    LIFE.  73 

In  thinking  how  she  would  thwart  her  husband, 
she  felt  a  secret  delight.  At  length  they  were  at 
the  door.  The  key  was  applied,  and  they  entered 
the  house.  First  they  boked  through  the  parlours. 

"  These  are  very  fine  rooms,"  said  the  husband. 

"  Miserable  paper !"  said  the  wife. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  think  it  very  good." 
J-  "  Hardly  fit  for  a  garret.     Isn't  it  astonishing 

that  anybody  could  have  the  execrable  taste  to 
select  such  a  pattern  ?" 

"  No  doubt  the  landlord  will  give  us  new  pa 
per." 

"  And  such  mantelpieces !  I  wouldn't  be  forced 
to  look  at  them  every  day  for  a  month  if  anybodj 
would  give  me  their  weight  in  gold." 

66 1  am  sure,  Ellen,  that  I  don't  see  anything  sc 
offensive  in  them." 

"  Well,  I  do,  then.  But  come ;  let  us  go  up 
into  the  chambers." 

Up  they  went. 

"  Just  as  I  supposed  it  would  be.  No  paper  on 
the  walls." 

"The  landlord  will  paper  the  chambers,  if  we 
uk  Lim,  I  am  sure." 

"•  HP  may  paper  them  with  gold  leaf,  if  he 
chooses,  but  I  would  not  live  in  his  house." 

"  Why,  Ellen '     WThat  d<r  you  mean  ?» 
7 


THE    WIFE. 

"Just  wha;  I  have  said.  The  fact  is,  I  don't 
like  the  house  at  all,  and  can't  imagine  how  you 
could  have  conceived,  for  a  single  moment,  the 
idea  of  renting  it." 

"I  think  it  a  very  excellent  house." 

"You  do?" 

"Certainly.  A  very  genteel,  comfortable 
house." 

"  Genteel !  Oh,  la !  Your  ideas  of  gentility  and 
mine  differ  vastly.  I  can't  live  here,  Mr.  Riston. 
If  I  must  go  to  housekeeping,  I  will  be  the  mis 
tress  of  something  that  suits  my  taste  much  better 
than  this  does." 

"  Suppose  you  look  for  a  house  yourself.  I  am 
willing.  If  you  are  not  pleased  with  this  one,  see 
if  you  cannot  find  another  that  you  like  better." 

This  was  gaining  one  point.  Mrs.  Biston, agreed 
to  look  out  herself.  Two  days  afterwards  she 
said  to  her  husband, 

"  I  think  I  have  met  with  a  house  that  is  just 
the  thing."  « 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     Where  is  it  situated  1* 

"  In  Arch  street,  above  Tenth." 

"  What  is  the  rent  ?" 

"  Only  nine  hundred  dollars.  It  is  a  very 
cheap  house  fol  so  fine  a  one." 


I  \ 

A   SAD    PICTURE    OF    DOMESTIC    LIFE.  75 

u  Nine  hundred  dollars !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rinton, 

>  in  surpnse. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  rent." 

"But  you  certainly  do  not  think  about  our 
renting  a  house  at  nine  hundred  dollars  ?" 

>  "  Why  not  ?    It  is  just  the  thing ;  I  know  you 
}           will  be  delighted  with  it." 

j  "Not  at  nine  hundred  dollars." 

J  "  The  rent  is  very  reasonable,  Mr.  Riston.     You 

<          don't  know  what  an  elegant  house  it  is." 

"  No  doubt  it  is  elegant  enough,  my  dear,  but 
we  can't  afford  to  pay  nine  hundred  dollars  rent 
for  a  dwelling." 

"  How  much  do  you  pay  for  your  store  ?" 

"  I  pay  a  thousand  dollars.     But " 

"  Very  well,  if  you  can  pay  a  thousand  dollars 
for  a  store,  I  see  no  reason  why  you  can't  pay 
nine  hundred  for  a  dwelling." 

"  But  a  store,  Ellen,  is  a  place  of  business ;  the 
rent  of  which  is " 

"  And  a  dwelling  house  is  a  place  of  residence. 
Where  is  the  difference,  prav  ?" 

'*  A  very  great  difference.  The  rent  of  a  store 
always  depends  upon  the  amount  of  business  that 
can  be  done— — " 

"  Don't  talk  all  that  nonsense  to  me,  Mr.  Riston. 
I  don't  pretend  to  understand  a  word  of  it.  To 





~ 

7ti  THE   WIFE. 

my  mind  there  is  no  reason  whatever  why  a  man 
ghould  pay  more  rent  for  a  store  than  for  a 
dwelling." 

"But  look  at  it  for  a  moment  in  a  common 
gense " 

"  J  don.'t  pretend  to  know  anything  about  com 
mon  sense,  Mr.  Riston." 

"  Really,  Ellen,  you  are  the  most  unreasonable 
woman  I  ever  met  in  my  life." 

"  Quite  complimentary  !  No  doubt  you  think 
so.  But  thank  goodness  !  your  opinion  of  me  will 
never  break  my  heart." 

A  pause  in  the  coming  tempest  succeeded  this 
fitful  gust. 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest  about  the  house  you 
speak  of  in  Arch  street  ?"  at  length  resumed  the 
(s  husband. 

"Why  not,  pray?" 

"I  cannot  afford  such  a  rent,  Ellen." 

"  You  don't  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  I  be 
lieve  that  kind  of  nonsense,"  retorted  the  wife. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  true  !"  Mr.  Riston  spoke  with 
gome  warmth. 

The  lady  tossed  her  head  increduously. 

"  As  to  paying  nine  hundred  dollars  for  a  house, 
I  can  assure  you  at  the  threshhold  that  the  thing 
is  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment." 


i 


A    SAD    riCTURE    OF    DOMESTIC    LIFE  77 

"  Well,  just  as  you  like.     You  can  go  and  rent 

that  pigeon  box  in  Ninth  street  if  you  please,  and 

keep  bachelor's  hall.     I  shall  not  go  into  it,  nor 

>          into  any  such  mean  concern.     When  I  go  to  house- 

J          keeping,  if  go  I  must,  it  will  be  in  a  decent  way." 

;>  "  Decent  ?     Pray  what  do  you  call  decent  ?" 

"I  call  the   house   in  Arch   street   a  decent 
;!          house." 

jj  Mr.  Riston  was  angry  and  bewildered. 

5  «  "It  is  no  use  for  you  to  think  of  a  house  at 
\  nine  hundred  dollars,  Ellen,"  he  said.  "  The 
thing  is  out  of  the  question.  My  circumstances 

are  not  such  as  to " 

"  There,  there,  now,  Mr.  Riston,  I  don't  want     •     Jj, 
another  word  about  your  circumstances  !     I  .have          ,«. 
heard  nothing  else  I  believe  since  we  were  mar 
ried." 

"But  won't  you  listen  to  common  sense, 
woman  ?" 

«  Woman  !     Indeed  !" 

"  Wife,  then,  if  that  will  sound  any  better  to 
your  ear,  though  a  very  strange  kind  of  a  wife  you 
are,  let  me  tell  you  !"  This  remark  would  have 
made  Mrs.  Riston  very  angry  if  it  had  been  uttered 
under  different  circumstances.  But  her  mind  was 
intent  upon  thwarting  her  husband,  and  she  knew 

that  she  was  el  afing  him  severely.    Considering 
7* 


THE   WIFE. 

nis  tcnjpeid.iiio.iit,  she  was  neither  surprised  nor 
pained  at  his  words. 

For  two  or  three  days  the  contention  about  the 
house  in  Arch  street  went  on.     The  husband  re- 
J  mained  so  firm,  that  Mrs.  Kiston,  after  several 

conferences  with  her  friend  Mrs.  Leslie,  deemed 
«!  it  best  to  yield  a  little  on  the  rent  of  the  house, 

ff  with  the  determination  of  making  it  up  in  the  fur- 

\  niture.      The     handsome    dwelling    in   Walnut 

J  street,  which  Mr.  Hartley  had  wished  to  take, 

still  remained  vacant.  The  rent  of  this  was  seven 
hundred  dollars  per  annum.  With  much  tact, 
Mrs.  Boston  directed  the  thoughts  of  her  husband 
i  •  to  this  house,  and  actually  induced  him,  by  seem 
ing  herself  to  be  resolved  on  the  house  in  Arch 
street,  to  propose  to  rent  this  one.  With  appa 
rent  great  reluctance  the  lady  yielded,  finally,  her 
preference  for  the  nine  hundred  dollar  house. 

The  contention  with  his  wife  about  the  choice 
of  a  dwelling  had  been  such  a  severe  one,  that 
when  a  new  difference  of  opinion  in  regard  to  the 
style  of  furnishing  it  showed  itself,  Mr.  Riston  re- 
tired  at  once  from  a  combat  in  which  he  felt  that 
inglorious  defeat  awaited  him.  With  a  sigh,  and 
a  foreboding  of  evil,  he  resigned  to  her  the  task 
of  selecting  the  furniture,  not,  however,  until  he 
bad  expressed  a  willingness  to  remain  where  they 


A   SAD   PICTURE   OF   DOMESTIC   LIFE.  79 

wers,  rather  than  be  subjected  to  the  heavy  ex 
pense  which  he  saw  too  plainly  housekeeping 
would  involve. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  was  his  lady's  reply.  "  This  is 
all  of  your  own  seeking.  Things  have  gone  too  f  ai 
now.  We  have  already  taken  the  house,  and  mj 
neart  is  set  upon  having  it  fitted  up  in  a  delightful 
way.  I  am  not  one  of  your  changeables.  When 
I  once  set  my  mind  upon  doing  a  thing,  I  must  go 
to  the  end." 

Nothing  was  left  but  quiet  submission,  or  a 
prolonged  contention,  the  result  of  which  in  the 
husband's  mind  was  very  doubtful.  He  weakly 
chose  the  former,  against  all  the  higher  dictates 
of  his  reason ;  thus  giving  to  a  self-willed,  vain 
and  unfeeling  woman,  a  new  and  more  dau- 
power  over  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


7ALSE     FRIENDS. 

WHILE  .he  result  of  her  contention  with  hei 

I 


husband  was  still  doubtful,  Mrs.  Riston  cailed 
upon  none  of  her  mends  except  Mrs.  juesiie,  who 
always  encouraged  her  to  do  just  what  she  wished 
to  do,  and  whose  advice  was  always  such  as  to  aid 
her  in  more  effectually  attaining  her  own  ends. 
But,  no  sooner  was  it  setiled  that  she  was  to  be 
come  the  mistress  of  an  elegant  house,  than  she 
Was  on  the  wing.  Among  the  first  persons  on 
whom  she  called  was  Mrs.  Hwtley.  She  could  <! 
not  restrain  the  desire  she  felt  tc  !«x  Anna  know 
that  she  was  herself  to  occupy  the  bea»t»Ail  house 
<;  she  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  pass  by. 

"  I  have  news  to  tell  you,  my  dear,"  sb^  said, 
with  a  brightening  face,  after  she  had  beeu  seated 
A  few  minutes. 


"Ah?    What  is  it?" 

"You  wouldn't  guess  in  a  month." 


Perhaps  not.    I  never  wis  very  good  at 


FALSE   FRIENDS.  B\ 

u  I  am  going  to  housekeeping." 
<  What  ?» 

"  To  housekeeping  !     Aint  you  surprised  !w 

"  I  am  truly.     What  in  the  world  has  caused          | 
you  to  chancre  your  views?" 

"  Circumstances.  My  husband  set  his  mind  so 
determinedly  upon  it,  that  nothing  was  left  me 
but  to  consent  Would  you  believe  it  ? — the  man 
actually  set  about  renting  a  house  and  furnishing  .  J 
it  himself,  declaring  that  he  would  hire  some  one 
to  keep  it  for  him  and  live  there  alone  if  I  did 
not  choose  to  go  with  him !  It 's  a  fact !  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

Mrs.  Hartley  looked  at  her  visiter  in  mute 
amazement. 

"Well  may  you  look  surprised  !"  resumed  Mrs. 
Riston.  "  But,  if  I  did  consent,  in  the  end,  after 
a  hard  struggle  to  give  up  my  freedom,  it  was 


only  after  stipulations  honourable  enough  to  my          ;j 
pride  and  ambition.     He  fought  hard,  but  I  con 
quered  by  perseverance."  $ 

It  was  impossible  for  Anna  to  say  a  single  word, 
in  the  pause  that  followed  this  sentence.  Her 
heert  was  shocked.  But,  of  the  real  impression 
her  communication  had  made,  Mrs.  Riston  had  no 
idea. 


"My  husband  fixed  upon  a  house  verv  mucli 
\ 


82  THE   WJFE. 

like  the  one  you  have,"  the  lady  continued, 
"only  something  more  genteel;  but  I  told  him 
no  at  once :  that  if  I  was  forced  to  go  to  house 
keeping,  I  must  at  least  have  a  word  to  say  in  r*- 
gard  to  the  style  in  which  I  was  to  live.  He 
yielded  a  little,  and  then  I  pushed  him  up  hard, 
for  I  knew  that  nothing  else  would  do.  At  first 
I  insisted  upon  having  a  house  in  Arch  street  at 
nine  hundred  dollars." 

<k  Mrs.  Riston '" 

"Indeed  I  did.  He  looked  dumbfounded.  I 
urged,  but  he  said  no,  with  such  a  resolute  air, 
and  plead  inability  so  very  hard,  that  I  abated  a 
little.  You  remember  the  house  in  Walnut  street 
that  you  were  so  silly  as  to  refuse  when  your  hus 
band  wanted  to  rent  it?  Well,  that  house  still 
remained  vacant,  and  I  settled  down  upon  it,  de-' 
termined  not  to  descend  a  single  step  lower.  My 
good  man  fought  hard,  but  it  was  no  use.  I  \vas 
immoveable.  At  last  he  consented,  and  we  have 
the  keys !  Aint  you  sorry  now  that  you  did  not 
secure  it?" 

"  No,"  was  the  simple  reply  sf  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  You  will  be,  then.  Wait  until  I  get  it  fur 
nished.  I  '11  dazzle  your  eyes  for  you.  Mr.  Ri» 
ton  has  left  all  to  my  taste." 

"  Without  regard  to  expense  "*" 


FALSE    FRIENDS.  83 

**  He  tried  to  limit  me  to  a  certain  sum,  but  I 
told  him  it  was  no  use.  We  had  no  children,  and, 
therefore,  no  particular  reason  for  being  over  eco 
nomical.  Other  people  could  live  in  handsome 
style  who  were  no  better  off,  and  we  had  just  as 
good  a  right  to  all  the  elegancies  of  life  as  any 
body  else.  He  preached  about  his  not  being  able 
to  bear  the  heavy  expense :  but  I  wouldn't  listen 
i  to  him  a  moment.  I  have  heard  about  that  ever 

j  S 

?          since  we  were  married.     He  would  go  to  house 
keeping,  and  now  he  shall  have   enough  of  it. 
Oh,  but  I  '11  show  you  style !" 
!>  Anna  looked  grave. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?  Not  envious,  I 
hope,  in  anticipation  ?" 

"  No,  heaven  knows  that  I  am  not !"  ^nna  said, 
with  a  serious  face  and  as  serious  a  tone. 

"What  is  the  matter,  then,  child?" 

"I  am  grieved  at  heart  to  hear  any  one  speak 
of  her  husband  as  you  are  speaking,  Mrs.  Riston. 
Depend  upon  it  you  are  wrong." 

"  Wrong  for  a  woman  to  assert  her  rights  ano 
maintain  them." 

"  A  woman  has  no  rights  independent  of  hei 
husband." 

"  You  are  crazy,  child .  Must  she  be  his  pa»- 
rive  slave  *" 


84  THE   WIFE. 

"  No  j  nor  stoald  she  attempt  to  p  ay  the  ty 
rant  over  him." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  attempt  to  play 
the  tyrant  over  my  husband  ?" 

"  Look  closely  into  your  own  conduct,  and  an 
swer  that  question  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Biston." 

"  I  am  not  used  to  being  spoken  to  in  this  way, 
madam!"  An  angry  flush  mounted  to  the  brow 
of  the  visiter  as  she  spoke,  and  a  slight  movement 
of  the  body  showed  that  she  was  about  to  rise  from 
her  chair. 

"  Think,  Mrs.  Riston,"  replied  Anna,  "  whether 
it  would  not  be  of  use  to  you  to  know  exactly  what          ;» 
impression   your  words   and    conduct   sometimes 
make  upon  the  minds  of  disinterested  friends." 

«  Ah  !  Well !  Perhaps  it  would.  Please  let 
me  have  the  benefits  of  your  impressions."  This 
was  said  in  a  quick,  sneering  voice.  ;j 

"  Not  while  you  feel  as  you  do  now,"  Anna 
calmly  said.  "  I  have  no  unkindness  in  my  heart 
towards  you.  I  hope  you  will  cherish  none  to 
wards  me.  But  I  cannot  help  being  affected,  as  I 
a111*  by  your  language.  It  gives  me  the  most  ex 
quisite  pain." 

The  manner  in  which  this  was  said,  caused  the 
angry  feelings  of  Mrs.  Riston  to  subside. 

"  You  are  a  strange  woman,  Mrs.  Hartley." 


FALSE   FRIENDS.  85 

"  I  strive  always  to  do  right." 

"  So  do  I ;  that  is,  to  have  everything  my  own 
way,  which  I  think  the  right  way." 

"  Acting  in  that  spirit,  you  will  rarely  be  in 
the  right,"  Anna  firmly  said. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  am  right  in  opposing  my 
husband's  penuriousness  ?" 

s'  "  You  should  first  be  very  sure  that  what  you 

£          call  penuriousness  is  not  a  just  degree  of  prudence. 
What  do  you  know  of  his  affairs  V9 

"  Nothing  at  all,  except  that  he  is  very  well 
off  As  to  the  exact  amount  of  his  property,  or 
how  much  he  makes  in  a  year,  I  dont  concern 
myself.  Of  one  thing  I  am  very  certain,  my  ex 
travagance  will  never  ruin  him." 

"  I  hope  not.  But  you  should  not  disregard  his 
complaints  that  you  spend  money  too  freely." 

"I  shouldn't  regard  it,  you  mean.  But  you 
a  n't  judge  of  this,  Anna.  You  don't  know  how 
c  istantly  it  has  been  rung  in  my  ears  ever  since 
i  ,  were  married." 


"Perhaps  this    is    your  fault?     Perhaps  you 


l>  ve,  from  the  first,  been  disposed  to  spend  money          ;» 
/tore  freely  than  you  should." 

"  I  differ  with  you ;  and  I  ought  to  know  best." 
This  was  coldly  spoken.  » 

Anna  felt  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  proceed, 
8 


TIIE   WIFE. 

and  the  subject  was  dropped  there.  The  visiVer 
did  not  stay  long.  Mrs.  Hartley  had  made  her 
feel  very  uncomfortable. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  think  that  Anna  Hartley  a 
very  strange  woman,"  remarked  Mrs.  Riston,  some 
ten  minutes  after  she  left  her,  to  her  very  particu 
lar  friend,  Mrs.  Leslie.  jj 

"  I  always  knew  that." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  had  the  coolness  to  take         J 
me  to  task  this  morning,  because  I  made  my  hus 
band  rent  the  house  in  Walnut  street,  that  she  wa* 
fool  enough  to  let  slip  through  her  fingers  ?" 

"  Humph !  She  has  repented  of  that,  no  doubt, 
a  hundred  times  already." 

"  And  is  only  mad  because  I  had  spirit  enough        •  J» 
to  insist  upon  having  it.     But  I  '11  be  revenged  on          f> 
her  !     I  '11  show  her  what  she  has  missed,  at  the          ;'• 
house  warming  !     I  '11  make  her  heart  sick  of  her 
own  two-pence-ha'penny  affair !     But  her  time  is 
past.     The  honey-moon  is  long  since  over,  and 
she  will  find  her  loving   spouse  very  clear  of 
gratifying  the  desire   that  I  will  create  in  her 
bosom.     The  conceited  minx !  to  think  of  reading 
me  a  lesson  in  conjugal  duty.     I  '11  bet  anything 
that,  before  six  months  are  past,  she  and  her  hus 
band  Will  have  miny  a  little  tea-party,  if  not 
something  worse." 


FALSE    FRIENDS.  87 

*  She  is  a  prude." 

?  *'  And  as  cold  hearted  as  an  icicle.        I  won 

der  any  man  could  fancy  her." 
|  "  She  has  a  pretty  face." 

;'  "I  differ  with  you.     It  may  be  regular  ;  but  it 

has  no  life — no  vivacity." 

"  We  won't  quarrel   about  that.    Some  have 
I-         called  her  really  beautiful.     Gardiner  once  thought 
so." 

"  When  he  played  the  love-sick  fool  to  one 
who  was  not  worthy  of  him.  But  he  has  ex 
pressed  himself  very  differently  to  me,  since." 

"Has  he?     Sour   grapes,   perhaps      Gardiner 

wanted  her  very  badly,  and  so  did  William  Archer. 

«;          by  the  way,  speaking  of  Archer.  I  believe  public 

opinion  is  rather  too  hard  with  him." 
J  "  You  know  I  have  always  thought  so." 

"  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that.     He  was  here  ye» 
-erday,  and  is  quite  serious   about  renewing  hn 
addresses  to  Florence  Armitage,  arid  claiming  the 
fulfilment  of  her  promise  to  marry  him!" 
«  Will  it  be  of  any  use  ?" 
"  I  think  so.     Florence  is  a  weak  girl,  and  may 
be  easily  induced  to  look   upon  him  once  more 
with  favourable  eyes." 
>  (f  Why  does  he  feel  so  anxious  al^ut  pressing 


big  suit  in  that  quarter*     There  aie  dozens  of 


L 


r 


88  THE   WIFE. 


girls  to  pick  among,  who  are  far  more  loveable 

than  Florence." 
|  "  For  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  no  doubt. 

He  wants  me  to  aid  him  again,  and  I  shall  do  it. 

Florence  has  called  in,  occasionally,  of  late,  to  see 

me.     When  next  we  meet,  I  will  sound  her  on  the 
|  subject.     He  has  written  her  a  letter,  to  which  no 

answer  has  yet  been  returned.     It  will  be  very 
r;  easy  to  lead  her  on  to  speak  of  tlr^,  and  then  I         ;> 

will  urge  her  to  reply  to  it."  j> 

j  "  You  can  persuade  her,  easily  enough,  to  do 

this."  ij 

"  Yes,  I  presume  I  can.     When  she  has  once 

answered  his  letter,  no  matter  what  she  says,  her 

feelings  will  be  more  or  less  interested  in  him, 

spite  of  all  she  can  do.     After  that,  it  will  be  plain 

sailing  for  our  friend  Archer." 
"  So  I  should  think." 
"Unless   the   influence   of  Anna   Hartley  be 

stronger  than  I  think  it  is." 
j  "  Is  she  attached  to  Anna  ?" 

'«  Very  closely ;  and  she  can  do  almost  anything 

with  her.     But  love  for  a  man  is  stronger  than 
j  love  for  a  woman,  in  a  maiden's  heart.     Here  liet 

William  Archer's  strong  ground  of  hope. 

"  She  will  be  his  wife  before  aix  months  passes, 

Mrs.  Leslie." 


FALSE   FRIENDS.  99 

'  Or  three  either,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  pro 
phecy." 

"  Success  to  his  suit,  say  I.  He  is  just  as  good 
as  she  is.  Indeed,  she  ought  to  be  glad  to  get  him ; 
I  for  his  family  is  far  more  respectable  than  hers." 

"  That  is  true.  Her  lather  is  nobody.  Who  ever 
heard  of  him  until  a  few  years  ago  ?  And  as  for 
her  mother,  it  would  be  a  hard  task  to  trace  her 
pedigree,  and  not  very  flattering  to  her  descendants, 
when  it  was  done.  If  it  wasn't  for  her  father's 
money,  I  don't  think  William  would  take  much 
to  heart  her  failure  to  comply  with  her  marriage 
promise." 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 

We  cannot  follow  these  heartless,  dangerous 
women,  any  further  in  their  conversation.  Enough 
of  their  charact  .TS  and  designs  are  apparent  to  th« 
reader. 


L 


CHAPTER  X. 

BLIND     INFATUATION 

AFTEF  v'orence  Armitage  had  left  Mrs.  Hartley 
on  the  day  she  showed  her  the  letter  which  sh« 
had  received  from  Archer,  she  did  not  see  so 
clearly  as  -while  with  her,  the  impropriety  oi 
making  a  reply.  The  image  of  the  young  man 
was  constantly  before  her  mind,  and,  scarcely  con 
scious  of  it  herself,  she  dwelt  with  pleasing  emo 
tions  on  that  image. 

When  she  went  home,  she  shut  herself  up  in 

;!          her  own  room,  and  read  over  his  letter  again. 

J  "I fear  to  wrong  any  one,"  she  sighed. 

<;  Then  came  up  to  the  eyes  of  her  mind,  with 

'/,          vivid  distinctness,  the  form  of  Grace  Leary  ;  and 

J          the  whole  scene  on  the  night  appointed  for  her 
wedding  arose  and  passed  before  her.     Shudder- 

J          ing,  she  strove  to  banish  the  blasting  visions,  but 
strove  in  vain.     It  seemed  as  if  the  wretched  gir! 

J'  was  in  the  room,  and  warning  her  not  to  give  a 

moment's  heed  to  the  tempter. 

The  excitement,  under  which  she  had  been  for 
•ome  time,  at  length  subsided.  But  still  her 


5  BLIND    INFATUATION 

thoughts  turned  to  William  Archer.  Resolutely 
did  she  strive  to  banish  his  image,  but  she  strove 
without  success.  It  was  still  present  with  her. 


That  night,  before  she  retired  to  bed,  she  wrote 
three  letters  in  answer  to  the  one  she  had  received, 
and  destroyed  them  all.  The  first  one  seemed  to 
her  too  cold  and  repulsive  in  style ;  and  the  two 
last,  rather  warmer  than  she  thought  it  right  to 
send. 

For  days  and  weeks  a  violent  struggle  went  on 
in  her  mind.  She  saw  Mrs.  Hartley  frequently 
\  during  the  time,  but  carefully  avoided  making  any 
allusions  to  the  subject.  One  day  she  met  Mrs. 
;>  Leslie  in  the  street.  She  had  not  visited  her  for 
some  time.  That  lady  urged  her  so  strongly  to 
call  upon  her,  that  she  promised  to  do  so,  and  very 
soon  fulfilled  her  promise.  Dexterously  did  Mrs. 
Leslie  manage  to  lead  Florence  to  allude  to  the 
past. 

"  Have  you  never  seen  him  since?"  she  asked, 
finally,  alluding  to  Archer,  and  speaking  in  a  tone 
that  completely  betrayed  Florence  into  a  misplaced 
confidence. 

"  But  once,"  was  replied. 

"When?" 

"  A  few  weeks  ago  I  met  him  in  the  street." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  V9 


r 


92  THE   WIFE. 


"Certainly  njt." 

"  Poor  fellow !    He  has  suffered  severely." 

"  And  so  has  Grace  Leary.  A  thousand  timei 
;>  more  deeply  than  ever  he  has."  Florence  said 
^  this  with  something  like  indignant  warmth. 

"  That  may  be  :  poor  wretch !  But  it  is  barely 
(j  possible  that  he  may  be  innocent  of  any  wrong 
^  towards  her." 

"  She  solemnly  accuses  him ;  and  charges  the 
ruin  of  other  victims  upon  him." 

"  Of  all  of  which  he  may  be  .guilty." 

"  Can  there  be  any  doubt  of  it  ?" 

"  There  is  always  a  doubt  of  guilt  where  no 
positive  evidence  is  given." 

"  But  is  there  not  positive  evidence  in  this  case  ?" 

u  There  is  the  testimony  of  a  vicious  woman. 
How  far  do  you  think  that  ought  to  be  taken  ?" 

"  It  should  be  taken  with  allowance,  certainly. 
But,  in  this  case,  her  testimony  is  not  the  only 
proof.  The  wrong  done  to  Grace  Leary  by  Wil 
liam  Archer  nas  been  a  thing  of  notoriety  for  a 
long  time." 

"  There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  running  goerip 
on  the  subject,  I  know ;  but  a  little  tattle  at  this 
kind  is  too  common  to  have  much  weight  attached 
to  it.  The  young  man  declares  his  innow»ce, 


BLIND    INFATUATION.  93 


\         *nd  we  should  take  good  care  that,  in  throwing 
tim  off,  we  do  not  wrong  the  innocent " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  What  is  your  opinion, 
Mrs.  Leslie?"  Florence  asked,  with  a  counte 
nance  and  tone  of  voice  that  betrayed  the  interest 
her  heart  still  retained  in  Archer. 

"  I  believe  he  has  been  a  wild  young  man- 
that,  in  the  thoughtless  ardour  of  youth,  he  may 
have  been  led  astray  in  some  things.     But,  of  the 
errors  of  his  youth,  I  believe  he  has  sincerely  re- 
|         pented,  and  that  it  is  wrong  to  condemn  him  on 
<         their  account." 

Florence  did  not  reply. 

"  That  he  suffers  acutely  in  consequence  of  the 
^         present  aspect  of  affairs,  I  know.     He  was  deeply 
jj         attached  to  you,  and  still  is." 
5  "  Do  not  speak  so  to  me,  Mrs.  Leslie,"  Florence 

<!         said,  with  evident  agitation. 
^  "I  speak  but  the  truth.     Surely  you  are  not 

^         afraid  to  hear  that." 

"I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Archer  is  innocent 
of  the  dreadful  crime  charged  upon  him  in  the 
most  solemn  manner — a  manner  that  carried  in 
stant  conviction  to  my  heart,  and  to  every  one 
present." 

"And  still  all  may  have  been  but  the  mad 
ravings  of  an  insane  creature  " 

4  '  / 


r 


94  T-CE   WIPE. 


"  No  matter.  It  was  a  timely  occurrence  of 
BO  startling  a  nature  as  to  warrant  me  in  declining 
jj  to  fulfil  my  engagement  with  him,  and  heaven 
knows,  I  have  no  desire  now  to  renew  it !  In  the 
intercourse  I  had  with  him  after  I  consented  to 
become  his  wife,  I  saw  deeper  into  his  character. 
He  is  selfish  and  overbearing;  and  I  was  led  to 
suspect,  from  evidence  not  to  be  educed,  that  there 
was  more  love  for  me  on  his  tongue  than  in  hir 
heart." 

"  You  are  certainly  mistaken." 

"  I  think  not." 

'*  Indeed  you  are." 

"  That  is  barely  possible.     I  doubt  it." 
s  "  But  if  you  refuse  to  marry  him,  you  need  n«A 

refuse  to  speak  to  him." 

"  That  is  another  question,  and  the  only  one 
about  which  I  am  undecided.  I  do  not  wish  to 
wrong  any  one — to  wound  any  one." 

"  Of  course  not.     For  this  reason  you  should  be 

well  assured  that  there  is  good  cause  for  the  s*and 

you  have  taken  towards  Archer,  who,  let  me  tell 

J          you,  still  loves  you  as  truly  and  tenderly  as  ever." 

"  Mrs..  Leslie !  what  do  you  mean?"  qirckly 
exclaimed  Florence,  with  increased  agitation.  "  I 
have  just  told  you  that  I  believed  his  love  h>r  m« 
ro  be  only  an  empty  profession." 


BLIND    INFATUATION. 

"In  which  belief  you  have  wronged  him." 
"  You  speak  with  a  strange  confidence." 
"  I  have  a  right  to  do  so.     Though  so  many 
nave  judged  the  young  man  with  the   harshest 
kind  of  judgment,  and  turned  coldly  from  him, 
I  have  still  remained  his  friend.     To  me,  then,  he 
might  be  expected  to  open  his  heart  freely ;  and  '•! 

he  has  done  so."  s 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  attentively  at  Florence  to 
see  the  effect  of  her  words,  and  then  went  on.  < 

"  The  truth  is,  William  Archer  has,  himself, 
void  me  that  for  you  he  still  has  the  purest  regardj 
and  if  you  never  look  at  him,  never  speak  to  him, 
!>          he  will  still  love  you  and  you  only,  and  love  you 
on  to  the  end." 

The  effect  of  this  was  to  make  Florence  turn 
pale,  and  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  The  words 
of  the  tempter  were  sinking  into  her  heart.  | 

When  she  parted  with  this  criminally  injudicious 
friend,  it  was  with  a  half-extorted  promise  that  she 
would  not  refuse  to  speak  to  Archer,  when  next 
ghs  met  him.  This  promise  she  was  soon  call  on 
upon  to  perform.  On  the  next  day  she  passed  the 
young  man  in  the  street.  As  they  were  aj»- 
proaching,  their  eyes  met  and  were  fixed.  Flor 
ence  inclined  her  head,  but  did  not  smile.  A  re 
spectful  bow  was  returned,  and  both  passed  on, 


96  THE  WIFE, 

f 

one  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  the  other  with  &          j 
wildly  throbbing  heart.  ;> 

"  What  am  I  doing  ?"  Florence  asked  herself, 
after  her  feelings  had,calmed  down.  "  Where  if 
this  to  end  ?  I  will  can  upon  Anna  and  be  guidec 
by  her.  She  always  sees  right." 

But,  conscious  that  Anna's  advice  would  no/          5 
accord  with  her  feelings,  she  deferred  calling  tc 
see  her,  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week. 

The  recognition  of  Archer  by  Florence,  en 
couraged  the  young  man.     A  visit  to  Mrs.  Leslie 
soon  after,  and  a  half  hour's  conference  with  that          < 
lady  gave  him  renewed  hope. 

Scarcely  a    month    had    elapsed    before    the          £ 
thoughtless  young  girl  was  again  on  terms  of  in-          J 
timacy  with  Archer,  a  man  against  whose  charac 
ter  common  report  had  not  said  one  word  too 
much. 

With  most  consummate  art  did  the  sordid  lover 
insinuate  himself  once  more  into  favour.  Flor 
ence  and  he  met  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Leslie,  who 
did  all  in  her  power  to  forward  his  designs.  At 
Length  Archer  ventured  to  renew  his  vows  of 
love,  and  to  claim  the  fulfilment  of  a  promise  ] 
already  given.  The  weak  girl  was  fully  in  his 
toils.  She  yielded  a  trembling  consent,  for  reason 
told  her  that  she  was  acting  wrong. 


BLIND   INFATUATION.  9"? 

Thus  far  no  one  but  Mrs.  Leslie  knew  anything 
of  the  state  of  Florence's  mind — not  even  her 
parents,  who  had  not  the  most  remote  suspicion 
that  she  had  met  Archer  SJUM|  the  occurrence  of 
an  event  that  has  been  mor^man  once  alluded  to. 

"  How  will  your  father  and  mother  feel  about 
this  1"  asked  Archer,  during  one  of  their  inter 
views,  after  he  had  become  fully  restored  to 
favour  with  Florence.  "  Do  you  think  it  possi 
ble  to  disabuse  their  minds  of  the  prejudice  against 
me  with  which  they  are  affected?" 


"  I  can  hardly  tell.  But  they  cannot  be  deaf 
to  reason." 

"  Do  they  ever  speak  of  me." 

"  No.  Your  name  is  never  mentioned  in  OIL 
house." 

"  What  do  you  think  are  their  feelings  towards 
\  me  ?" 

"  Unfavourable." 

"  How  shall  we  approacn  them  on  the  subject 
J  that  lays  so  near  our  hearts  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  tremble  whenever  I  think 
about  it." 

"  Will  there  be  any  use  in  asking  their  consent'?'' 

"  I  fear  not.  My  father  is  set  in  his  ways. 
When  he  once  makes  up  his  mind,  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  move  him." 


98  THE   WIFE. 

"  How  is  your  mother  1" 

Anna  shook  her  head. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  maiden's  desjonding 


"We  cannot  live  without  each  other." 
Florence  /  ,-aned  her  head   confidingly  against 
her  lover,  and  he  drew  his  arm  tenderly  about  her. 
There   was   a   deep   silence,  that   continued   for 
many  minutes. 

The  real  truth  was,  Archer  had  everything  to 
lf  fear  from  a  general  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  he 

ft  had  renewed  his  attentions  to  Florence.     For  this 

reason  he  did  not,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  wish 
J  '  the  parents  of  Florence  consulted  at  all  in  the 
£  matter.  His  own  wish  was,  to  marry  clandes 

tinely  ;  and  this  he  meant  to  propose,  if  he  could 
see  it  safe  to  do  so.  The  reader  can  now  perceive 
the  drift  of  his  leading  questions  to  the  infatuated 
girl.  5 

$  "  Suppose,"  he  suggested,  "  on  making  known 

our  wishes  to  your  parents,  they  should  positively 
refuse  me  your  hand  ?  What  will  be  our  position in 
u  I  have  told  you,"  was  replied,  "  that  I  lo~ve 
you  more  than  life." 

"And  are  you  ready  to  forsake  all  for  me,  if 
called  to  cuch  a  trial  ?" 


r 


BLIND   INFATUATION.  99 

«  Can  you  doubt  it?" 

"  No.    I  would  doubt  my  own  heart  if  I  did.1* 

"  You  must  not  doubt  it." 

u  If  your  parents  will  not  consent  to  our  union, 
i»  1  fear  the}  will  not,  what  course  shall  we  take  ?" 

"  It  is  for  you  to  say  that.  I  am  ready  to  be 
come  your  wife." 

"  But  you  will  have  to  do  it  in  the  face  of  your 
parents'  disapprobation.  You  will  have  to  act  in 
disobedience  to  them.  Would  it  not  be  better  tc 
avoid  that  ?" 

"  Can  it  be  avoided  ?" 

"  I  think  so."  And  as  Archer  said  this,  he  re 
garded  the  face  of  Florence  with  close  attention. 
Its  expression  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

"How?" 

"  By  a  marriage  at  once,  while  they  are  still 
ignorant  that  we  have  met." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  such  a  step  will  give  matters 
an  aspect  any  more  favourable."  ^ 

"  I  think  it  will.  Take  this  view.  We  can  be 
married  privately,  and  then  send  a  letter  explain 
ing  why  we  took  the  step,  laying  particular  stress 
upon  the  unconquerable  reluctance  we  both  felt  to  \ 

risking  the  danger  of  a  refusal  by  asking  consent. 
Depend  upon  it,  our  position  will  be  much  better,  ! 

than  if  we  get  married  after  an  expressed  disappro- 


100  THE    WTFfc. 

oation.  The  act  may  be  excused  as  a  piece  D< 
folly,  or  madness,  or  whatever  they  may  choose  to 
call  it.  But  it  will  have  about  it  nothing  of  direct 
disobedience,  a  thi^j£  so  hard  for  a  parent  to  forget 
and  forgive." 

Florence  felt  the  force  of  this.     Mrs.  Leslie 


was  now  referred  to,  and  she  seconded  the  views          ;j 
of  Archer  warmly.     The  bewildered,  and  really 
unhappy  girl  at  length  yielded  a  reluctant  consent. 

"  When  shall  the  marriage  take  place  ?"  eagerly 
asked  the  lover. 

Florence  was  silent. 

"  Name  the  earliest  possible  moment.    No  tin.e          •! 
is  to  be  lost." 

"  No,  not  an  hour,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  || 

"  Why  need  it  be  delayed  at  all.    We  are  both 
ready  to  join  hands  as  well  as  hearts.     Why  may          '< 
it  not  take  place  this  very  night?" 

**  O  no— no !    That  is  too  precipitate,"  objected          >, 
Florence.     "  I  must  have  a  little  time  to  collect 
and  compose  my  thoughts." 

"You  are  willing  to  marry  William?"   said 
Mrs.  Leslie.  ; 

"  O  yes.     I  have  said  so,"  she  replied 

"  And  have  little  hope  of  gaining  the  consent 
of  your  parents  ?" 

"I  fear  they  would  not  give  it." 

,,,..-- 

.»*.   --w^.-'^-v' 


BLIND   INFATUATION.  101 

"  Then  why  delay  what  must  take  place  V9 

"  Let  me  have  a  single  day  for  preparation.  I 
ask  no  more."  Tears  gushed  from  the  eyes  of  the 
excited  girl. 

Neither  Archer  nor  his  friend  could  say  a  word 
more.  It  was  then  regularly  arranged  that  the 
marriage  should  be  celebrated  privately,  on  t>e 
next  night,  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Leslie. 

As  Archer  and  Florence  walked  home  that 
night,  the  latter  noticed  that  a  female,  small  in 
stature,  and  with  a  marked  peculiarity  of  dress, 
passed  them  no  less  than  four  times.  Each  time 
she  looked  intently  into  the  face  of  Florence,  and 
once  partly  paused,  and  seemed  about  to  speak. 
The  countenance  of  this  person  was  clearly  seen 
by  Florence  as  the  light  of  a  lamp  fell  upon  it 
It  was  strangely  familiar.  But  where  she  had 
seen  it  she  tried  in  vain  to  think.  Archer  did  not 
appear  to  notice  this  female,  or,  il  he  did,  he  made 
jj  no  allusion  to  her.  [> 

"  To-morrow  night,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  the 
hand  of  Florence  at  her  father's  door,  and  then 
walked  rapidly  away. 

!»  "  Cursed  creature :"  he  muttered  between  ~AIS 

!>          teeth,  when  a  few  paces  distant — "  you  thwarted  \ 

me  once  j  but  I  defy  you  now  !    To-morrow  night  j! 

I  will  bo  the  husband  of  Florence,  and  then  youi 
9* 


102  TUB    WIFE. 

revengeful  spirit  will  have  to  seek  out  some  new 

scheme.     If  you  cross  my  path  many  times  more, 

I  will  murder  you !" 

The  clenched  teeth  and  hands,  and  the  dark 
J  face  of  the  young  man,  showed  plainly  that  he 
!;  was  really  under  the  influence  of  demoniac  pas 

sions.    He  hated  the  object  of  his  animadversions 
ft          whoever  it  might  be,  with  a  murderous  hatreu. 


CHAPTER  XL 

AN     ACT     TO    BE     REPENTED     OF. 

FLORENCE  entered  her  father's  house  and  hur 
ried  up  to  her  chamber,  without  meeting  either          <; 
of  her  parents.     Closing  the  door  and  locking  it,          !; 
she   threw  herself  panting  upon  her  bed.     Her          S; 
thoughts  were  all  in  confusion,  and  her  heart  op 
pressed  with  a  suffocating  burden. 

"I  believe  I  am  mad!"  she  at  length  said,  in  a 
low,  solemn  voice,  rising  up  and  looking  around 
her.  "  What  have  I  been  doing  ?  What  have  I 
promised  ?"  > 

Sinking  down  again  she  covered  her  face  with 


,J 


AN   ACT    TO    BE  REPENTED   OF.  103 

ner  hands,  and  lay  motionless  for  a  long  time.  In 
about  half  an  hour,  she  arose  with  a  deep  sigh, 
and  after  walking  the  floor  of  her  chamber  for 
half  an  hour,  retired  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  her  mind  was  calmer,  and  she 

|  saw,  with  more  accuracy  than  before,  her  true 
position,  and  the  folly  of  the  step  she  was  about  to 
take.  But  how  could  she  a  second  time  break  her 
promise  to  the  man  whom,  in  spite  of  reason,  she 
loved?  She  felt  that  she  could  not.  As  the  day  j> 
advanced,  she  grew  more  and  more  agitated.  To 
conceal  this  from  her  mother,  she  feigned  not  to 
be  well,  and  kept  her  room. 

•;  Sometimes  she  would  feel  strongly  inclined  to  go 

<;          to  her  mother  and  confess  all.     But  this  idea  would 
be  abandoned  almost   as  quickly  as  it  was  con- 

1}          ceived.     Her  parents,  she  believed,  would  hear  to 
nothing  but  her  total  abandonment  of  all  expecta 
tion  of  becoming  the  wife  of  Archer,  and  to  thu 
she  was  not  prepared  to  submit. 

In  the  afternoon  the  infatuated  girl  went,  ao 
cording  to  promise,  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Leslie, 
there  to  await  the  hour  appointed  for  the  perform 
ance  of  the  marriage  rite,  which  was  to  stamp 
upon  her  whole  life  the  seal  of  wretchedness. 
Mrs.  Leslie  received  her  warmly,  and  lavished 
upon  her  every  attention.  But  Florence  felt  un- 


104  THE    WJFE. 

happj,  because  sensible  that  the  step  about  to  be 

taken  was  a  wrong  one.     It  was  now,  however, 

j.  too  late  to  think  of  retracting.     She  was  read  j 

5  to  fulfil  her  promise,  even  under  the  clear  COH» 

viction  that  in  so  doing  she  was  acting  madly. 

Half  an  hour  after  Florence  left  her  home,  a 
servant  brought  to  Mrs.  Armitage  a  letter  which 
had  just  been  handed  in  at  the  door.  She  broke 
the  seal  and  read  as  follows : 

"  Madam : — The  wolf  is  again   entering  the 
sheep-fold.     Beware !     As  you  value  the  present 
and  future  happiness  of  jrour  daughter,  guard  her 
'<  more  carefully.     Last  night  I  saw  her  in  company 

with  that  arch  deceiver  whose  attempt  to  possess 
her  hand  in  marriage,  I  once  thwarted !  Could 
you  have  believed  it  ?  No !  But  it  is  true.  Tho 
hawk  is  again  seeking  to  consort  with  the  dove. 

Yours,  " 

With  this  letter  open  in  her  hand,  Mrs.  Armi 
tage  went,  acting  from  the  impulse  of  the  mo 
ment,  direct  to  the  room  of  her  daughter.  Flor 
ence  was  not  there.  She  called  to  her,  but  no 
answer  came  from  any  part  of  the  house.  On  in 
quiry  she  learned  that  she  had  gone  out. 

With  much  anxiety,  and  a  mind  greatly  dis 
turbed,  the  mother  awaited  her  daughter's  return. 
But  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  evening  found 


L 


AN    ACT    TO   BE    REPENTED   Of.  105 

I 

her  till  absent.  When  Mr.  Armitage  came  home, 
il^  showed  him  the  singular  communication  she 
Lad  received.  It  made  him  very  angry. 

"  If  that  girl  is  really  so  mad  as  to  encourage 
and  keep  company  with  such  an  unprincipled 
scoundrel,  she  deserves  to  be  turned  out  of  the 
house !"  he  said. 

i  "  It  is  no  time,  now,  husband,"  was  the  reply  of 

j          Mrs,  Armitage,  "  to  indulge  our  indignant  feelings. 

J         Let  us  rather,  looking  solely  to  the  safety  of  our 

child,  strive  to  keep  her  away  from  this  Archer." 

"  But,  dont  you  see  that  all  our  striving  will  be          jj 
no  better  than  the  striving  of  a  weak  man  against 
a  strong  current  ?    If  she  is  so  infatuated  already 
as  to  meet  him  without  our  knowledge,  she  will 
marry  him,  if  so  disposed,  without  our  consent." 

"  Let  us  not  look  at  the  worst  side.     And  after          \ 
all,  perhaps  this  letter  does  not  tell  the   truth. 
\          Perhaps  it  is  the  work  of  some  cruel-minded  per 
son,  whose  delight  it  is  to  give  pain  to  others." 
;»  "  I  believe  the  letter  to  be  genuine." 

"  It  may  be.     I  fear  it  is." 
"  What  steps  ought  we  to  take  ?    We  nwst  acl 
promptly  if  we  act  at  all." 

"  The  best  thing  is,  I  suppose,  to  show  this  let 
ter  to  Florence  as  soon  as  she  comes  home,  and 
3  from  the  impression  it  makes  upon  her,  how 


106  THE    WIFE. 

far  she  has  suffered  her  feelings  to  become  again 
impressed  favourably  in  regard  to  the  young  man. 
When  we  see  the  extent  of  the  evil,  we  shall  be 
better  able  to  guard  against  it." 

But  they  waited  in  vain.  The  warning  had 
come  too  late.  While  they  sat  anxiously  expect 
ing  her  return,  she  was  pledging  her  faith  to  one 
who  loved  her  as  the  wolf  loves  the  lamb. 

On  the  next  morning  the  newspapers  announced 
the  marriage  of  William  Archer  and  Florence  Ar- 
mitage,  to  the  astonishment  and  grief  of  all  who 
knew  them.     As  early  as  eight  o'clock,  a  letter 
was  received   by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Armitage,  from 
their  daughter  and  her  husband.     It  set  forth  all         <; 
their  reasons  for  the  hurried  step  they  had  taken, 
pretty  much  in  the  order  that  Archer  had  pre 
viously  suggested  to  Florence,  and  begged  to  be         > 
taken  into  favour.  $ 

t     c 

Mr.  Armitage  flung  the  letter  from  him,  and 
left  the  house,  declaring  that  they  should  never 
cross  his  threshold  while  he  lived.  Mrs.  Armitage 

shut  herself  up  in  her  room  and  wept   all   the 

b 
niorning. 

When  the  father  and  mother  again  met,  both 
were  calm,  and  deeply  thoughtful.  Nothing  was 
•aid  about  the  communication  which  they  had 
received.  The  meal  passed  in  silence.  Mr.  Ar- 


>  AN   ACT    TO   BE    REPENTED   OF.  107 

<         rmtagc  went  slowly  back  to  his  store,  and  Mrs. 
J         Armitage  again  shut  herself  up  in  her  room. 

>  "  Poor  Florence  !"  said  Mrs.  Armitage,  think 
ing  aloud,  as  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her  husband 
after  the  tea  things  had  been  removed  that  evening. 

!>  Mr.  Armitage  sighed. 

On  the  next  morning,  as  her  husband  was  about 
leaving  with  a  gloomy  countenance  for  the  store, 
Mrs.  Armitage  remarked  that  they — 

"  Should  not  forget  that  Florence  was  still  their 
child." 

^  Her  husband  looked  at  her  i-  r  a  moment  or  two. 

{  His  face  was  not  stern.  It  wore  an  expression  of 
mingled  grief  and  tenderness.  But  he  made  no 
answer ;  only  sighing,  and  then  turning  away  and 
leaving  the  house. 

During  the  morning  another  letter  came  from 
the  young  couple.  It  was  humble  in  its  tone,  and 
expressed  great  anxiety  for  a  reconciliation.  It 
was  in  the  hand-writing  of  Florence,  and  was 
soiled,  in  many  places,  with  tears.  The  mother 

I  wept  over  it  for  an  hour.  When  her  husband 
came  home  she  placed  it  in  his  hands.  He  af 
fected  a  sternness  of  manner  when  he  saw  from 
whom  it  had  come.  But  this  soon  gave  way  to 
the  power  of  his  real  feelings.  The  mother  of 
Florence  watched  him  closely  as  he  bent  over  the 


108  THE    WIFE 

letter,  riei  heart  trembled  as  she  saw  his  hand, 
after  he  had  read  a  few  lines,  go  quickly  to  his 
eyes,  and  dash  aside  a  tear  that  dimmed  his  vision. 
He  read  on ;  but,  long  before  he  reached  the  last  | 

line,  he   had  thrown   down  the   letter  and  wai         ^ 
...  * 

weeping  like  a  child. 

Before  an  hour  passed,  Florence  was  in  her 
mother's  arms. 


CHAPTER  XTL 

MARRIAGE    CHANGES   SOCIAL    RELATIONS 

"  HAVE  you  looked  over  the  morning  paper  ?" 
said  Hartley  to  his  wife,  when  he  came  home  at 
dinner-time  on  the  day  the  marriage  of  Archer 
and  Florence  had  been  publicly  announced. 

"  Not  particularly.     Why  ?» 

"  A  friend  of  yours  is  married."  This  was  said 
without  a  smile. 

"Ah!  Who?" 

"  Florence  Armitage." 

"  No  ?"  Anna  started,  and  looked  serious. 


«^--^^-r-«^- 


MARRIAGE  CHANGES  SOCIAL  RELATIONS.     109 

"  It  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  too  true ;  and  she  has 
married  that  young  Archer." 

"  It  cannot  be  so,  James.  Surely  there  must 
be  some  mistake  1" 

"  No.     They  went  off  together  last  night,  and 

5         were   married   secretly.      It   is   announced   this 

morning  in  the  papers.     I  am  told  that  no  one 

even  suspected  that  they  had  met  since  the  time 

their  former  engagement  was  broken." 

"  The  girl  must  be  insane !" 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  saw  her,  Anna  V9 

"  It  is  several  weeks  since  she  was  here.  Then 
she  told  me,  as  I  mentioned  to  you  at  the  time, 
that  Archer  had  written  to  her,  and  that  she  felt 
inclined  to  believe  public  opinion  judged  him  too 
severely." 

"  What  it  has  not  done.  He  is  just  as  bad  as 
the  general  voice  pronounces  him;  I  believe 
worse.  And  this  the  poor  girl  will  soon  find  to 
her  sorrow." 

"Did  you  hear  at  whose  house  the  marriage 
took  place  ?  Or,  did  they  go  to  a  minister's  ?" 

"It  is  said  that  the  ceremony  was  performed 
by  an  alderman,  at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Leslie." 

"  Now  I  understand.  This  is  the  work  of  that 
injudicious  woman.  Oh,  what  could  she  have 
10 


L 


) 

110  THE   WIFE. 

been  thinking  about !  She  knew  the  character  of 
Archer  well." 

"Few  knew  it  better.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  is  a 
thoughtless  woman.  Criminally  thoughtless." 

"I  never  felt  any  rational  confidence  in  her, 
after  I  had  known  her  for  a  short  time.  How 
much  of  evil  such  a  woman  can  do ;  and  yet  move 
in  the  best  society,  and  be  well  received  there! 
Poor  Florence !  Most  sincerely  do  I  commiserate 
her." 

"How  will  her  parents  act?  Do  you  think 
they  will  be  so  much  incensed  at  her  conduct  as 
to  refuse  to  receive  her  with  her  husband  ?" 

"I  think  not.  They  will  be  grieved  sorely. 
It  will  be  a  painful  affliction.  But  they  will  not 
cast  off  their  child." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  her  sake." 

"  Yes.  A  consciousness  of  having  acted  wrong, 
is  grief  enough,  without  anger  and  banishment 
added  thereto." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  call  and  see  her,  and " 

"No,  James.  I  do  not  intend  calling  upon 
her." 

"Ah!  Why  not1?  You  were  friends.  She 
may  have  acted  wrong,  but  she  is  still  the  same." 

"  Not  t:>  me.     She  is  no  longer  Florence  Ar- 


MARRIAGE   CHANGES   SOCIAL   RELATIONS.      Ill 

milage,  but  the  wife  of  William  Archer,  whose 
character  I  detest." 

"  But,  shall  you,  because  his  character  is  vile, 
cease  to  regard  the  good  that  is  in  his  wife  V9 

"No.  I  may  regard  all  that  is  good  in  her, 
still ;  but  I  cannot  visit  her.  Would  it  be  right 
for  me  to  do  it  when  I  could  not  speak  to  her  hus 
band  if  he  were  standing  by  her  side  ?  I  think 
not.  Reverse  the  case.  Would  it  be  right  for 
me  to  receive  the  visits  of  a  lady  who  would  not 
speak  to  you  ?" 

"  That  question  is  not  very  hard  to  answer.  I 
do  not  think  it  would.  But  no  lady  could  have 
the  good  reason  for  avoiding  me  that  you  have  for 
avoiding  Archer." 

"  It  matters  not.  Florence  believes,  no  doubt, 
that  her  husband  is  innocent  of  the  heinous  sins  laid 
to  his  charge,  and  therefore  ought  not  to  receive 
my  visits  while  I  treat  him  as  if  he  were  guilty. 
But  more  than  this.  I  believe  that  no  woman  can 
love  a  bad  man  as  her  husband,  and  not  suffer  a 
moral  perversion.  This  is  another  reason  why  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Archer.  And  a  still  further  reason 
is,  that  I  ought  not  to  visit  freely  in  the  family  of 
a  man  so  justly  condemned  by  public  opinion,  lest 
he  be  thought  one  of  mr  husband's  friends." 


112  THE  WIFE.  J 

"  You  would  not  feel  bound  to  treat  Florence 
coldly,  if  she  were  to  call  upon  you  1" 

"  No.     But  I  could  not  return  her  call.     She 
has  shown  herself,  in  this  act,  so  destitute  of  true 
womanly  feeling,  that  I  do  not  wish  to  number          t 
her  among  those  I  call  my  friends." 

"  All  will  not  appreciate  your  motives.     You          J 
will  be  thought  harsh  and  censorious." 

"  I  cannot  help  it.  I  desire  the  good  opinion 
of  every  one,  but  not  at  the  expense  of  my  own 
self-respect.  Florence  has  chosen  her  way  in 
life ;  and  it  will,  I  fear,  be  a  thorny  one :  but  I 
cannot  go  along  by  her  side ;  for  I  chose  a  differ 
ent  way." 

"  I  hardly  suppose  that  your  visiting  Florence 
occasionally  would  cause  any  one  to  think  im 
properly  of  me,"  said  Hartley.  £ 

"  It  might  have  that  effect ;  and,  while  I  live, 
\          no  act  of  mine  shall  cast  even  a  flitting  shadow 
over  my  husband's  good  name  or  fortune." 

Anna   spoke   with  a    generous    warmth   that          j 
caused  Hartley's  besom  to  glow. 

"  I  freely  approve  of  what  you  say,"  he  re 
turned.     "  Florence  has  chosen  her  path  in  life,          \ 
and  that  path  cannot  run  side  by  side  with  yours.          I; 
If  you  detest  the  husband'?  principles  so  fuUy  that 


MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-WARMING.          113 

you  cannot  speak  to  him,  you  ought  not  to  be  on 
terms  of  friendly  intercourse  with  his  wife." 

"No;  I  feel  that  I  ought  not;  and  feeling, 
you  know,  is  sometimes  a  woman's  strongest 
reason." 


'.;  ,  CHAPTER 

MRS.   RISTON'S   HOUSE-WARMING. 


MRS.  RISTON  liked  so  little  the  plain  way  in  }> 
which  Anna  spoke,  that  she  did  not  again  call  to 
see  her  during  the  time  she  was  engaged  in  pur 
chasing  furniture  and  fitting  up  her  house.  When 
all  was  ready,  and  she  had  taken  possession,  with 
more  pride  and  triumph  in  her  heart  than  a  queen 
would  feel  in  coming  into  her  regal  rights  and 
honours,  she  did  not  forget  Mrs.  Hartley  in  her 
list  of  invitations  to  the  splendid  party  she  almost  <| 
compelled  her  husband  to  consent  that  they  should 
give. 

This  party  did  not  cost  less  than  eight  hundred          \ 
dollars,  and  was,  certainly,  one  of  the  most  bril 
liant  affairs  of  the  kind  that  had  been  seen  in 
10* 


114  THE    WIFE. 

Philadelphia  for  a  long  time.  Every  room  in  the 
house,  from  the  first  to  the  third  story,  was  deco 
rated  with  hired  or  purchased  ornaments,  suited 
to  the  purpose,  and  all  were  thrown  open  to  the 
company.  At  twelve  o'clock  a  splendid  supper 
was  served  to  nearly  three  hundred  persons,  the 
table  literally  crowded  with  everything  delicate 
and  recherche  that  could  be  procured.  The  va 
riety  of  confectionary  displayed  was  wonderful. 
The  wines  were  abundant,  and  the  best  and  most 
costly  that  could  be  procured. 

During  the  whole  evening,  Mrs.  Riston  moved 
among  the  company  with  the  air  and  grace  of  a 
duchess.  Her  vanity  led  her  to  call  the  attention 
of  almost  every  one  with  whom  she  conversed  to 
this  or  that  piece  of  furniture  or  ornament.  She 
walked  with  her  guests  over  the  house,  and  lis 
tened  with  delight  to  their  expressions  of  admira 
tion.  There  were  few  present  who  did  not  flatter 
her  vain  heart,  by  approving  all,  and  pronouncing 
her  house  the  most  perfect  specimen  they  ever 
saw.  One  exception  to  this  was  Mrs.  Hartley. 
But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  she  was  so  un 
ladylike  in  her  deportment  as  not  to  call,  even 
while  talking  with  Mrs.  Riston,  everything  around 
her  beautiful  j  or  as  10  appear  cold  and  unapprov 
ing.  She  had  too  much  delicacy  of  feeling  foi 


MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-WARMIUG.         115 

that.  She  had  expected,  when  she  left  home,  to 
find  a  house  attired  with  unusual  splendour.  She 
did  not  think  Mrs.  Riston  was  right  in  indulging 
such  an  extravagant  spirit,  but,  in  her  own  house, 
and  on  a  festive  occasion,  she  had  no  right  to  show 
her  disapproval. 

But,  i"  she  had  no  right  to  do  this,  she  was  not 
called  upon -  to  flatter  a  weak,  vain  woman.     As  $ 

far  as  she  believed  it  delicate  for  one  lady  to  ap 
prove  the  taste  of  another  lady  in  the  selection  of 


her  furniture,  and  in  its  arrangement,  she  did  so, 


but  without  appearing  to  think  that  her  guest 
wished  her  to  be  very  profuse  in  her  expressions 
of  admiration.  4 

Her  manner,  as  may  be  supposed,  did  not  please 
Mrs.  Riston.  To  Mrs.  Leslie,  who  was  present, 
she  said,  with  an  ill-concealed  sneer — 

"Mrs.  Hartley  is  dying  of  envy.  Have  you 
met  her  ?" 

"  No— not  yet.  I  cannot  come  across  her  in 
this  crowd." 

"  I  have  been  by  her  side  three  or  four  times, 
and  she  praises  everything,  but  in  such  a  cold 
way!  Any  one  can  see  that  she  is  grieved  to 
death  for  being  such  a  fool  as  Rot  to  take  this  house 
when  she  could  get  it.  What  do  you  think  sh*  x 
gays  about  my  gas  chandeliers  in  the  parlour  *" 


116  THE  WIFE. 

u  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure." 

"  She  says  they  are  very  neat  f" 

"  O  dear !  They  are  magnificent !" 

"  So  everybody  says  but  her.  And  so  does  fthe 
«ay  in  her  heart.  I  took  her  up  into  my  cham 
ber  ;  but  she  only  smiled  a  poor  approval." 

"  She  is  a  narrow-souled  creature,  Mrs.  Riston. 
I  always  knew  that.  I  almost  wonder  at  your 
sending  her  an  invitation." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  have  done  so,  if  I  hadn't 
wished  to  mortify  her." 

"That,  you  have  done,  it  seems,  effectually. 
She  couldn't  have  dreamed  of  finding  such  a 
palace  of  a  house  as  this.  I  must  confess,  that& 
large  as  were  my  expectations,  they  fell  far  below 
the  truth.  But  what  does  your  dear,  good,  patient 
husband  say  to  all  this  ?" 

"  It  will  kill  him,  I  am  afraid.  I  have  tumbled 
over  him  half  a  dozen  times  to-night;  and  it  almost 
makes  me  laugh  to  see  how  sober  he  looks.  I 
don't  believe  he  has  smiled  since  the  company 


began  to  assemble  ?"  <; 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  that  this  will  attract  at 
tention  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  worries  me  terribly  when  I  think  of 
it ;  but,  then,  I  remember  that  he  has  quite  a  long 
phiz  at  the  best  of  times,  and  people  know  tk;«- 


MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-FARMING.          117 

I  wish,  however,  from  my  heart,  that  he  wouldn't 
make  such  a  fool  of  himself,  and  expose  us  to  ridi 
cule,  as  he  certainly  will." 

£  "  What  did  he  say  when  he  saw  the  style  in 

which  the  house  was  furnished  ?" 

"  He  actually  stood  aghast !     Everything,  you 
know,  was  left  to  my  taste.     I  had  most  of  the          S 
furniture  in,  and  the  hoase  nearly  ready  before  he 
could  spare  time  from  his  business — that  eternal  j 

business,  business ! — to  look  in  upon  my  opera 
tions.     When  he  saw  the  parlour,  he  turned  pale. 
*  Ellen,  are  you  mad  V  he  said.     '  You  know  I 
can't  afford  this.'" 
"Ha  ha!" 


"  *  You  would  go  to  housekeeping,'  I  merely  |j 

replied,  as  coolly  as  you  please.     *  It  is  all  your  jj 

own  doings.  I  told  you  over  and  over  again  that 
you  would  be  killed  at  the  outlay  of  money.  But 
nothing  would  do.  To  housekeeping  I  must  go — 
must  become  a  domestic  slave.  I  consented  at 
last,  and  here,  on  the  very  threshold — before  we 
even  get  into  the  house,  you  are  fidgeting  your 
self  to  death  about  the  exppnse.  I  am  really 
ashamed  of  you.' " 

"  It  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  him,"  laugh 
ed  Mrs.  Leslie.     "  But  here  he  comes." 

The  object  of  their  conversation  came  up  at  the 


118  THE   WIFE. 

moment,  and  Mrs.  Riston  glided  aw^y,  leaving 
him  with  Mrs.  Leslie.  The  lady  noticed  that, 
while  he  endeavoured  to  be  cheerful,  his  mind  was 
really  depressed. 

"  You  have  a  brilliant  company  her^  to-night," 
said  Mrs.  Leslie.  */ 

"  Yes,"  and  Mr.  Riston  forced  a  smh  i.  "The 
gayest  company  I  have  seen  for  a  long  time.  I 
hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself." 

"  0  yes.  I  always  enjoy  myself.  I  *oa  one  of  .  \ 
your  contented  people." 

"  You  are  certainly  fortunate  in  youx  tempera-  s 
ment." 

"  So  I  have  often  thought.  Let  the  v-orld  wag  || 
as  it  will,  I  always  try  to  look  at  the  bright  side  ;j 
of  things."  <; 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  the  same."  j; 

"  It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  worlc*.     Good          £ 
and  evil  come  in  spite  of  us.     If  we  will  only 
enjoy  the  good,  and  not  fret  ourselves  at,  but  pa 
tiently  bear  the  evil,  we  shall  get  on  smoothly 
enough." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the 
presence  of  others.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  saw,  or  im 
agined  that  she  saw,  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Riston, 
a  deeper  feeling  of  uneasiness  than  what  would 


1 

MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-WARMING.          119          I 

wise  from  the  contemplation  of  an  extravagant 
waste  of  money,  because  he  loved  money. 
,     It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  Mr.  and '  Mrs. 
Hartley  retired.     As   they  rode  away,  both  re 
mained  silent.     Anna  sighed  once  or  twice.  . 
"  Foolish — foolish    woman  !"    she    ejaculated, 

S  \ 

J          after  they  had  reached  home.  j 

\  "You  may  well  say  that !     And  foolish,  fool 

ish  man,  to  permit  such  extravagance !"  replied 
Hartley. 

"  He  could  not  help  it,  I  suppose." 

"  You  mean  that  he  weakly  yielded  everything 
to  his  wife's  extravagance." 

"  Yes.     And  that  was  wrong." 

"  Wrong  ?     It  was  criminal  under  all  the  cir 
cumstances.     He  is  not  able  to  waste  money  after 
this  fashion.     Few  men  in  business  are  pressed 
harder  than  he  is  to  make  his  payments.     Scarcely 
a  week  passes  that  we  do  not  have  to  lend  him          jj 
one  or  two  tnousand  dollars.     And  it  is  whispered 
ibout  that  he  has  already  been  compelled  to  go          { 
into  the  hands  of  shavers.     Still,  I   believe   he          j> 
would  have  been  able  to  get  over  his  present  em-          ] 
barrassments,  which  are  the  result  of  two  or  three 
severe  losses,  had  he  not  launched  out  into  this 
extravagance.     Now  I  have  great  fears  for  him. 
His  situation  is  so  well  known  among  busmen 

i ___ __     ,„_  J 


120  THE   WIFE. 

men,  that  his  credit  will  be  shaken.     He  seemed          1 
conscious  of  this,  I  should  think,  for  he  looked         5> 

^  <* 

j  wretched  the  whole  evening — at  least  so  it  ap-         J 

peared  to  me.     How  he  could  feel   otherwise,  T 

<!  cannot  tell,  when  there  were  a  dozen  merchants         \ 

\  present  from  whom  he  has  to  borrow  money  almost         jj 

<;  every  day,  and  who,  if  they  were  to  refuse  to  sell          {j 

'<}  him  goods,  could  make  him  a  bankrupt  in  a  month.- 

If  a  single  one  of  these  withdraws  his  confidence, 

the  alarm  will  be  general,  and  poor  Riston  will 

fall  to  the  ground  like  lead " 

"Ruined  by  his  wife's  extravagance" — added 
Mrs.  Hartley,  finishing,  significantly,  the  sentence 
uttered  by  her  husband.     * 
;>  "  Yes.     That  will  be  the  truth.     He  now  owes         \ 

us  six  or  seven  thousand  dollars,  and  buys  more  or 
;•  less  every  week,  besides  borrowing  freely.     I  do 

j  not  think  it  will  be  wise  for  us  to  let  our  account 

;»  against  him  get  much  larger." 

"  Oh,  James !  do  not  be  the  first  to  remove  a 
stone  from  his  tottering  house,  and  thus  throw  it 
in  ruins  to  the  ground.  Perhaps  he  may  yet 
stand." 

's  "  That  I  do  not  wish  to  do.     But,  if  Mr.  R 

had  not  been  one  of  the  company  to-night,  I 
should  have  felt  bound  to  open  my  mind  freely 
on  the  subject  to  hin  and  Mr.  S  But  R—  is 

I  ! 


MRS.  RISTON'S  HOUSE-WARMING.          121 

a  shrewd  man  of  the  world,  and  will  not  hesitate  to 

speak  and  act  for  what  he  thinks  the  true  interest 

\         of  our  business.     I  should  not  at  all  wonder,  if  it 

<!         were  decided  to-morrow,  to  ask  of  Histon  such 

}         prices  for  goods  as  would  drive  him  away  irom  our 

•tore." 

"  Oh,  James !"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  "  is  it  not  sad 
I         to  think  how  easily  a  thoughtless  wife  may  ruin 
a  husband's  credit,  and  thus  destroy  him  ?  I  never 
saw  the  danger  before." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  much,  until  recently. 
Since  you  so  wisely  saved  me  from  dashing  out  as 
I  foolishly  wished  to  do,  I  have  opened  my  ears 
to  remarks  that  hitherto  made  little  or  no  impres 
sion  upon  me.  I  find,  that,  where  a  man  in  busi 
ness,  whose  capital  is  no  larger  than  is  needed 
safely  and  successfully  to  prosecute  it,  begins  to 
make  a  show  in  his  style  of  living,  he  is  looked  at 
with  some  suspicion,  and  that  remarks  detrimen 
tal  to  his  credit  float  about,  and  often  affect  him 
seriously.  From  some  things,  casually  said  by 

s          Mr.  B, in  my  presence,  since  we  went  to 

housekeeping,  I  feel  well  satisfied  that  if  we  had 
s .        taken  the  house,  since  rented  by  Mr.  Riston,  and 
<          furnished  it  elegantly,  it  would  have  done  me  no 
£         good,  and  might,  in  the  end,  have  led  to  a  separa 
tion  from  the  firm.'' 


£22  THE    WIFE. 

"  Oh  no.  Don't  think  so,  James.  1  am  sure 
that  would  not  have  taken  place,"  said  Anna,  lay 
ing  her  hand  upon  her  husband's  forehead,  and 
smoothing  back  his  hair.  This  little  act  was  only 
an  effort  to  keep  down  the  feelings  that  were  s 
struggling  for  expression,  and  ready  to  gush  forth.  j 

"  It  is  the  truth,  dear.    You  are  my  angel-guide,         \ 
sent  from  heaven." 

Anna's  tears  flowed  freely0     She  could  keep 
them  back  no  longer. 

"  I  will  always  seek  to  deserve  your  love  and         I; 
your  confidence,"  she  murmured,  sinking  into  his 
arms.     "  You  shall  never  find  a  single  thorn  in         J 
your  path  planted  by  my  hand,  if  God  will  only         !; 
endow  me  with  wisdom  to  act  well  my  part.    But         /t 
I  tremble  when  I  look  ahead,  and  reflect,  that  I 
am  liable,  at  almost  every  moment,  through  error 
of  judgment,  to  go  wrong." 

"You  will  never  go  far  wiong,  Anna,"  was 
her  husband's  encouraging  reply,  "  if  you  continue 
as  you  have  begun,  to  seek  for  direction  above- 
if  a  religious  principle  be  the  life-germ  of  all 
your  actions.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  no  fears. 
Come  what  may,  no  disaster  that  visits  me  will 
ever  be  traced  to  your  selfishness  and  folly i" 

'*  I  pray  heaven  that  it  may  not !"  was  the 
wife's  fervent  answer. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I1,       HOW  IT  AFFECTFP  HER  HUSBAND1! 
CREDIT. 

ij 

MR.  RISTON  tried  his  best  to  entertain,  as  far  as 
j!  his  personal  attentions  were  concerned,  the  mass 
of  people  he  had,  jointly  with  his  wife,  invited  to 
be  witnesses  of  his  folly.  But  he  felt  like  a  crimi 
nal  all  the  evening.  There  were  more  than  a  do 
zen  persons  present  to  whom  he  was  largely  in 
debted,  and  upon  whose  confidence  and  forbearance 
towards  him  depended  everything.  "  How  will 
all  this  effect  them?"  was  a  question  constantly  in 
his  mind.  When,  at  a  late  hour  in  the  morning, 
he  shook  hands  with  the  last  departing  guest,  and 
returned  to  his  still  brilliantly  lighted,  but  deserted 
rooms,  he  threw  himself  upon  a  sofa  with  a  heavi 
ly-drawn  sigh. 

"What  ails  you,  man?"  said  his  wife.  "It 
won't  kill  you  outright,  I  think.  It  is  our  first 
atter^t  at  housekeeping,  and  we  have  opened 
;•  handsomely." 

"  Have  gone  up  like  a  rocket,"  returned  th« 
husban/i,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness. 


124  THE  WIFE. 

Mrs.  Riston  looked  at  him  with  a  slight  curi 
of  the  lip. 

"  Soon  to  come  down  like  the  stick, >:  he  added, 

jj         still  more  bitterly.  J, 

"  You  talk  very  strangely.     What  am  I  to  un- 

J         derstand  by  such  language  ?" 

J  "  Why,  that,  ten  chances  to  one,  this  brilliant 

\         party  of  yours — not  mine — will  ruin  me."  !; 

"  You  are  mad." 

5  "  I  was  mad,  I  confess,  to  let  you  make  such  a          ! 

fool  of  yourself  and  me  too.    But  I  am  sane  enough 
now.     I  tried  to  tell  you  that  I  could  not  afford 

j;  all  this  extravagant  waste  of  money.  But  you 
shut  your  ears  and  would  not  hear  me.  You  will 
both  hear  and  feel  before  long.  Your  glory  will 
be  as  short-lived  as  the  early  flower  and  the 
morning  dew." 

's>  "  You  are  raving,  Mr.  Riston  !"  said  his  wife, 

growing  pale. 

"  I  am  not  a  man  used  to  much  extravagant 
speech.  It  would  have  been  well  for  both  of  us, 
if  you  had  made  this  discovery  earlier ;  if  you  had  <j 
believed  me  when  I  said  I  could  not  afford  to  spend 
money  in  certain  ways  proposed  by  you.  I  might 
as  well  have  talked  against  the  wind !  But  it  is 
no  use  to  upbraid  you  now.  To  throw  your  folly 
into  your  teeth.  Necessity  will  do  that  soon 


< 


HOW  IT  AFFECTED  HER  HUSBAND'S  CREDIT.     125 

enough;  and  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  profit 
by  the  lesson  you  will  receive." 

"  Mr.  Hist  on,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell 
me  what  you  mean  ?  To  speak  out  in  plain  and 
;>  intelligible  language?"  This  was  said  with  an 
alarmed  countenance,  but  in  a  steady  voice ;  the 
wife  looking  fixedly  at  her  husband.  Her  lips 
were  firmty  drawn  together. 

I  "  The  simplest  language  I  can  use  is  this,"  re- 

I          plied  Mr.  Biston  ;  "  and  it  is  such  as  I  have  used 
over  and  over  again  without  being  heeded.     I  am 
not  able  to  afford  this  style  of  living,  nor  to  give 
an  extravagant  party  such  as  you  have  given  to 
night.     What  is  the  natural  consequence  which 
follows,  when  a  man  expends  more  than  he  can 
<;         afford  to  spend  ?     Of  course,  he  goes  to  the  dogs, 
J         where-  I  have  now  a  very  fair  prospect  of  going, 
.'i         and  that  quite  speedily.     There  were  more  than  a 
dozen  men  here  to-night,  either  of  whom  could 
make  me  a  bankrupt  in  a  week.     It  is  only  ne 
cessary  to  raise  the  cry  that  I  am  living  beyond 
{(         my  means,  which  is  a  fact,  and  my  credit  is  gone. 
Take  that  from  me,  and  I  am  lost !" 

"  Credit !     Have  you  nothing  but  credit  ?" 
;j  "  Not  much  more,  at  present.     I  have  lost  ten 

jj         thousand  dollars  by  failures,  in  a  year ;  and  new 
my  business  is  so  clogged  up  that  I  am  obliged  to 
11* 


}  126  TIIE   WIFE. 

borrowJarge  sums  of  money  every  day,  in  order 
to  meet  my  payments.  Destroy  my  credit,  and 
you  ruin  me.  That  even  you  must  see." 

"  But  it  is  more  than  I  can  see,  how  this  party 
!j          or  this  house,  is  going  to  destroy  your  credit." 
',<  u  A  few  weeks  will  probably  open  your  eyes," 

;!          Mr.  Riston  said,  in  an  angry  voice  ;  and,  rising 
;j          he  left  the  room,  and  went  up  to  his  chamber. 

"  All  very  fine,"  he  muttered,  glancing  around. 
"  But  these  are  frost-work  luxuries.     They  will 
<          soon  melt  away." 

The  presence  during  the  evening  of  so  many 
of  the  very  men  on  whose  estimation  of  his  stand 
ing  in  business  depended  his  safety,  had  set  Mr. 
Riston  to  thinking  seriously  about  the  ultimate  ef 
fects  of  the  extravagant  expenditures  apparent  to 
every  eye.     It  was  this  that  had  sobered  him  so 
J          much  during  the  evening.     The  more  closely  he 
•;          thought  about  it,  the  more  he  felt  alarmed. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  Mr.  Riston's  hard  days. 
He  had  three  heavy  notes  to  lift,  and  two  thousand 
dollars,  borrowed  money,  to  return.  The  thought 
of  what  was  before  him,  kept  him  awake  during 
1  th»  greater  part  of  the  night.  He  would  not  have 
been  so  uneasy,  had  he  not  felt  that,  after  the  dis 
play  he  had  made,  the  effort  to  borrow  money 
would  come  with  a  bad  grace. 


HOW  IT  AFFECTED  HER  HUSBAND'S  CREDIT.    127 

Everything  wore  a  very  different  aspect  at  the 
breakfast  table  on  the  morning  that  succeeded  to 
the  splendid  entertainment.  Mr.  Riston  sat  in 
thoughtful  silence,  and  tried  to  eat,  but  every 
mouthful  was  taken  with  an  effort.  Mrs.  Riston 
was  the  picture  of  distress.  The  solemn  earnest 
ness  of  her  husband,  more  than  his  words,  had 
alarmed  her.  If  his  affairs  should  be  at  the  crisis 
he  said  they  were,  it  would  be,  she  felt,  a  terribie 
stroke.  What !  To  give  up  her  splendid  man 
sion  ?  To  shrink  back  into  a  still  deeper  obscurity 
than  that  from  which  she  had  emerged'?  The 
thought  alone  almost  drove  her  mad. 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest  in  what  you  told  me 
last  night,  Mr.  Riston,"  she  said,  unable  to  keep 
silence. 

"If  I. was  ever  in  earnest  in  my  life,  I  am  in 
earnest  now,"  was  replied.  "I  could  have 
weathered  through  my  difficulties,  had  I  not  in-  j; 

sanely  yielded  to  your  miserable  infatuation,  and  % 

incurred  all  this  expense,  and  what  is  worse,  laid 
myself  open  to  remarks  and  suspicions  that  will 
almost  inevitably  ruin  me."  ;> 

Mr.  Riston  spoke  angrily.  His  wife  made  -no 
answer ;  but  burst  into  tears,  and  rising  from  the 
iable  left  the  room. 

The  unhappy  man  sat  musing  for  some  time» 


128  THE   WIFE. 

and  then  withdrew  from  the  breakfast  room  and          \ 
passed   the  parlours,    where    he    looked    around 
in  order  to  satisfy  himself  by  a   new   observa-  J 

lion,   in   regard    to    the    impression    that    must 
have    been   made    upon    the   minds   of    cert  an          J 
individuals  who  were  in  his  thoughts.     A  sigh          J 
escaped  him  as  he  turned  away,  and  hurriedly  left 
the  house.     It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  reached          <; 
the  store.     Two  or  three  notes  had  arrived  before 
him.     One  requested  the  return,  on  that  day,  of 
five  hundred  dollars,  borrowed  money,  that  he  had 
not  expected  to  be  called  on  for  in  a  week.     The          ;' 
man  who  made  this  request  had  not  been  invited, 
with  his  wife,  to  the  house-warming. 

"  But  he  has,  no  doubt,  heard  of  it  already," 
Mr.  Riston  said,  mentally.  / 

He  opened  another  note.  It  contained  the  con 
fectioner's  bill.  The  amount  was— three  hun 
dred  dollars !  Crushing  this  bill  in  his  hand,  he 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  with  a  muttered  execra 
tion  against  his  wife,  and  turned  to  his  desk  to  ex 
amine  into  his  affairs  for  the  day.  A  few  hurried 
calculations  made  all  plain.  To  his  mi.id  the  as 
pect  of  things  was  appalling. 

"If  a  breath  of  suspicion  is  whispered  against 


me,  I  am  gone!"  he  mentally  said.     "Nothing 
can  save  me.    In  a  few  weeks,  if  I  can  retain  the 


HOW  IT  AFFECTED  HER  HUSBAND'S  CREDIT.    129 

confidence  of  every  one,  I  shall  be  safely  past  the 
crisis  of  my  affairs,  and  on  smooth  water  agrain. 
But  can  I  retain  it?  Alas !  I  fear  not.  Conibund  J 

this  housekeeping  folly,  and  this  party!  They 
will  prove  my  ruin  !" 

But  idle  fears  and  vain  regrets  would  accom 
plish  nothing.     There  must  be  action,  and  prompt 
action.     As  early  as  half  past  ten  o'clock  the  mer-. 
'\         chant  was  on  foot.  J 

"  Good  morning,  Kiston !"  said  the  first  man  on 
whom  he  called,  extending  his  hand  as  the  money- 
seeker  entered  his  store.  "  Really  !  that  was  a  J 
magnificent  affair  of  yours  last  night.  I  have 
never  in  my  life  been  present  at  a  more  splendid 
5  entertainment.  And  what  a  lovely  house  you 
have  got.  What  rent  do  you  pay  ?' 

"  Seven  hundred  dollars." 

The  other  shrugged  his  shouldeis. 

"Rather  high,  I  must  confess,"  Riston  said. 
u  But  we  have  no  children,  and  my  wife  must 
have  something  to  see  after.  We  can  live  in 
handsome  style,  and  not  be  at  a  very  heavy  ex 
pense." 

"  True,  that  does  make  a  difference.  Children, 
especially  half-grown  daughters,  are  a  great  ex 
pense.  Mine,  I  know,  are  terrible  hard  on  money. 


I3(  THE   WIFE. 

But  that  party  must  have  cost  you  a  thousand  dol 
lars,  Riston." 

*•  Nonsense !    It  didn't  cost  one-fourth  of  it." 

Riston  was  far  from  suspecting  how  near  the 
till  would  amount  to  the  sum  mentioned. 

"  If  you  get  off  with  less  than  a  thousand  dol 
lars,  you  may  think  yourself  a  fortunate  man. 
Why,  your  confectioner's  bill  will  be  three  hun 
dred  dollars,  at  least." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  asked  Riston,  with  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  heard  it,  somewhere,  yesterday.     I  believe 
$  it  came  from  your  wife." 

"  My  wife,  to  speak  the  truth,  is  a  little  too 
fond  of  making  a  display.     To  please  her,  I  con- 
;>  sented  to  give  a  party,  and  as  I  had  enough  of          ;> 

business  matters  to  occupy  my  time,  I  left  all  the         ^ 
;>  arrangements  with  her.     I  must  own  that  she  as*          s 

tonished  me  with  the  result  of  her  preparations.         jl 
Three  hundred  dollars  for  confectionary!    That 
will  never,  never  do." 

"  I  heard,  also,  and  I  believe  it  came  from  as 
authentic  a  source,  that  your  wines  were  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

"  Impossible !  They  did  not  cost  one-half  of 
tbat  sum." 

\ 


HOW  IT  AfFECTED  HER  HLSBAND'S  CREDIT.     131 

"  My  wife  saw  Mrs.  Riston   only  day  before 
yesterday,  and  had  it  from  her  own  lips." 

Riston  was  confounded.    It  seemed  that  his  wife 
\         had  not  ouly  indulged  the  most  lavish  expendi 
ture,  but  had  actually  blazoned  it  about.     It  was 
$         impossible  for  him  to  ask  this  man  to  lend  him 
5          money.     He  could  not  have  looked  him  steadily 
;!          in  the  face  while  he  made  such  a  request.     As 
5         quickly  as  he  could,  he  withdrew,  and  called  upon 
another  business"  friend.     Here  he  was  met  by  re 
marks  of  a  similar  kind,  though  made  with  rather 
«J         more  delicacy.     Before  leaving,  he  ventured  to 
£         put  the  question — 
\  "  Can  you  spare  me  anything  to-day  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  was  replied.    "  We  nave  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  pay." 

The  same  allusions  to  the  splendid  party  he  had 
j)         given,  met  poor  Riston,  go  where  he  would.    He 
found   it   almost   impossible   to  borrow   money : 
^         everybody  would  have  been  happy  to  accommo 
date  him,  but  nobody  had  anything  to  spare.     At 
one   o'clock  he  returned   to   his   store,  without 
having  accomplished,  comparatively,  anything  at 
f    .      all,     He  had  still  five  thousand  dollars  to  raise, 
\         and  no  certain  prospect  of  doing  it.    He  had  gone 
the  entire  round  and  could  get  no  adequate  assist 
ance.     Every  one  congratulated  him  on  his  bril- 


132  THE   WIFE. 

liant  entertainment  and  splendid  house,  but  few 
had  any  money  to  lend  him.  Even  those  who 
had  been  most  willing,  before,  to  assist  him,  were 
now  reserved,  and,  professedly,  unable  to  do  any 
thing.  !; 

"  I  am  a  ruined  man !"  he  said  to  himself,  bit 
terly,  as  he  sat  down  to  collect  his  thoughts.  "  As 
I  feared,  this  last  act  of  folly  has  decided  my  fate." 

In  the  hope  of  sustaining  himself  by  a  heavy 
sacrifice,  until  he  could  get  over  his  accumulated  jj 
difficulties,  Riston  went,  as  a  last  resort,  to  a  money  ^ 
broker,  and  offered  him  three  per  cent,  a  month, 
besides  a  liberal  commission,  if  he  would  get  him 
the  amount  he  wanted,  on  his  own  note  of  hand, 
at  four  months.  The  broker  promised  to  do  his 
best,  but  was  not  sanguine.  Two  o'clock  came  ; 
nothing  had  yet  been  done.  Half-past  two — the 
broker  was  not  in  his  office.  Riston  was  unable 
to  compose  himself  sufficiently  to  sit  down  and 
wait  for  him, — he  walked  the  floor  with  agitated 
steps  for  ten  minutes. 

"  All  is  lost !"  he  ejaculated,  stopping  suddenly 
and  looking  up  at  the  clock — the  time  had  passed 
on  until  it  lacked  but  a  quarter  to  three. 

"  Even  if  I  had  the  money  now,  there  would 
scarcely  be  time  to  lift  the  notes.  Fool !  fool  that 
I  was,  nrt  to  have  gone  to  the  holders  of  them, 


HOW  IT  AFTEx/TED  HER  HUSBAND'S  CREDIT.    133 

and  endeavoured  to  make  some  arrangement.  It 
would  have  been  less  disastrous  than  to  have  my 
paper  dishonoured." 

While  thinking  thus,  the  broker  entered  quickly, 
Riston  looked  eagerly  in  his  face.  Hope  died 
instantly. 

"  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,"  said  the  agent,  in 
a  voice  of  regret.  "  Money  is  very  tight." 

Without  a  reply,  Riston  took  the  note  he  had 
placed  in  the  broker's  hands,  put  it  into  his  pocket, 
and  thanking  him  for  the  trouble  he  had  taken,  re 
tired.     He   felt,  to   his   own   surprise,  perfectly 
calm.     The  great  struggle  had  ceased.     The  end 
;>          had  come.     He  yielded  passively  to  the  current, 
and   let   it   bear  him   down.     Returning   to   hia 
store,  he  informed  his  principal  clerk,  in  a  few 
words,  of  the  state  of  his  affairs ;  and  then  gave 
J          directions  to  have  all  the  books  settled  up  with 
the  utmost  despatch,  previous   to  a  meeting   of 
creditors,  which   he   should  call   at   the  earliest 
possible  day,  that   a  full  exhibit  of  his  business 
could   be  made.     He  then  took   his  way  home-          jj 
ward.     As  he  walked  along,  with  his  eyes  upon          % 
\          the  ground,  he  thought  of  his  wife — not  with  an-          £ 
5;          ger,  but  with  pity.     It  was  his  intention  to  inform 
5          her  fully  of  what  had  occurred,  and  to  make  her 

•eu  clearly  that  her  extravagance  had  been  the          $ 
12 


$  ? 

j  134  THE   WIFE. 

cause  of  his.  mm.  He  knew  that  this  must  pro 
duce  acute  pain;  out  it  would,  he  trusted,  be 
salutary  ; 


CHAPTER  XV. 

5  '  > 

TAKING     A     LOWER     PLACE     IN    SOCIETY.  ^ 

FOR  some  time  after  her  husband  went  out,  Mrs.          !> 
<          Riston  suffered  great  distress  of  mind.   The  thought         ij 

of  having  to  give  up  her  splendid  house,  was 
•]  almost  as  terrible  as  the  thought  of  death.  If  her 
<;  husband  should  really  fail  in  business,  she  felt  that 

she  could  not  survive  the  mortification.  ;> 

"  But  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !"  she  roused 
s          herself  by  saying.     "  This  is  only  a  bug-bear  that          s 
he  has  conjured  up  to  frighten  me." 

In  spite  of  her  effort  to  believe  this,  she  could 
not  help  feeling  uneasy.  About  twelve  o'clock, 
visiters  began  to  drop  in.  Mrs.  Riston  was  occu- 
|  pied  with  these  for  two  or  three  hours.  All,  with 
flattering  words,  ministered  to  her  vanity,  and 
caused  her  to  feel  how  intimately  blended  with  her  $ 
happiness  were  the  elegancies  with  which  she  wag 


J 


TAKING   A   LOWER   PLACE    IN    SOCIETY.        135 


furrounded.     Ever  and  anon  the  thought  of  what 
|          her  husband  had  said,  would  pass   through   her 
I          mind,  and  produce  the  most  acute  pain. 
|  At  length  she  was  alone  again.     It  was  past 

\         three  o'clock,  the  hour  for  dining,  but  Mr.  Riston 
had  not  yet  returned.     She  dreaded  to  see  him 
come  in,  and  yet  felt  anxious  about  his  prolonged 
absence,  for  it  did  not  seem  a  precursor  of  good. 
The  clock  was  striking  four,  when  she  heard  his 
footsteps  in  the  hall.    He  went  into  the  parlour,  but 
remained  there  only  a  moment.     She  next  heard 
s          him  ascending  the  stairs  with  a  more  deliberate 
step  than  usual.     She  looked  up  into  his  face  with 
an  anxious  and  inquiring  eye,  as  he  entered  the          ^ 
chamber  where  she  was  sitting.     Its   expression 
<;          startled  her.     There  was  something  about  it  that          ;< 
J          she  could  not  understand.     She  was  not  long  in 
•;          suspense.  ^ 

"  The  worst  has  come  to  the  worst,  Ellen,"  he  <! 
said,  in  a  calm,  cold  voice,  taking  a  chair  by  her 
side,  and  looking  fixedly  at  her.  "  As  I  feared  il 
would  be,  so  it  has  turned  out.  I  could  hear  of 
nothing,  go  where  I  would,  but  the  splendid  party, 
and  the  amount  it  must  have,  or  really  did  cost ; 
but  nobody  had  any  money  to  lend.  Men  who 
loaned  me  freely  last  week,  and  even  yesterday, 
and  who  could  have  done  it  as  easily  to-day,  had 


136  THE    WIFE. 

nothing  to  spare.  From  ten  o'clock  until  three, 
I  strove,  with  all  the  power  I  possessed,  to  get 
the  amount  of  money  needed  to  keep  me  from 
bankruptcy ;  but  in  vain.  I  am  now  a  dishonoured 
and  broken  merchant !" 

A  cry  of  anguish  burst  from  the  lips  of  his  un 
happy  wife,  as  he  said  this.  <j 

"I  do  not  upbraid  you  as  the  cause  of  my  mis 
fortune,"  he  resumed,  as  soon  as  the  excitement 
of  Mrs.  Riston's  feelings  had  in  some  measure 
subsided.  "That  would  avail  nothing.  But,  it 
is  only  right  for  you  to  know  that  but  for  thia 
house,  and  the  style  in  which  it  is  furnished,  and 
the  extravagant  display  made  last  night,  my  credit  J 
would  have  remained  untarnished.  The  money 
needed  to  meet  my  payments  to-day  would  have  < 
been  easily  procured,  and  in  a  few  weeks  my  feet 
would  have  been  on  firm  ground  again.  As  it  is,  ^ 
I  shall  have  to  give  up  all  to  my  creditors,  who 
will  place  my  effects  in  tne  Hands  of  trustees. 
Forced  settlements  will  involve  sacrifices,  and  the 
end  will  be,  that  I  shall  turn  out  an  insolvent 
debtor,  and  be  thrown  penniless  upon  the  world, 
to  begin  life  again." 

Mrs.  Riston  was  stunned  so  much  by  this  an 
nouncement,  that  she  could  not  speak.  Her  face 
was  pale  as  ashes,  her  hands  clenched,  and  her 


TAKING   A   LOWER   PLAJE    IN    SOCIETY.         137 

j  !| 

eyes  fixed  like  one  in  a  spasm.     So  paralyzed  was 
she,  that  she  had  to  be  carried  to  bed,  scarcely 
\         sensible  of  anything  that  was  passing  around  her. 
(  A  downward  tendency  is  always  rapid.     Mr. 

Riston  called  a  meeting  of  his  creditors,  and  sub 
mitted,  in  a  manly  spirit,  a  statement  of  his  affairs 
J          Trustees  were  appointed,  and  all  his  effects  placed          \ 
j;          in  their  hands.     His  elegant  furniture  was  sold  at 
J          public  sale,  within  three  weeks  of  me  aaie  of  its 
purchase,  and  the  cabinet-maker,  upholsterer  and 
others,  as  well  as  the  wine  merchant  and  confec 
tioner,    were    compelled   to   await   some   ten  or 
twelve  months  before  receiving  their  final  divi-          j 
dend  on  the  bankrupt's  assets,  which  left  them 
minus  thirty  cents  in  the  dollar  on  their  claims. 

Mrs.  Riston  retired  to  an  obscure  boarding-  ;» 
house,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  in  ten  days 
after  she  had  taken  possession  of  her  palace,  as 
she  had  called  it,  with  such  lofty  feelings.  She 
retired  a  broken-spirited  woman.  Her  husband's 
conduct  in  the  trying  ordeal  through  which  he 
was  compelled  to  pass,  gained  him  the  respect  and 
regard  of  many,  who  were  ready  to  assist  him.  He 
resumed  business,  after  the  lapse  of  two  months, 
<;  \n  a  small  way,  and  commenced  again  his  upward 
struggle,  fully  resolved  that  his  wife  should  neve 


12* 


.38  THE    WIFE. 

again  have,  any  control  over  him  that  was  not  the 
control  of  reason. 

"  If'  I  feel  able  at  any  future  time  to  go  to  house 
keeping  in  a  quiet,  economical  way,  I  shall  not  re 
gard  her  objections,"  he  said  to  himself,  while  think 
ing  over  his  plans  for  the  future.  "  She  will  have  to 
be  governed  by  my  wishes  now.  I  have  yielded 
to  tier's  long  enough.  I  am  willing  to  devote 
myself  to  business  early  and  late,  and  to  take  upon 

£  myself  all  its  attendant  cares  and  anxieties  for  QUI 
mutual  good.  It  is  but  right  that  she  should  fill 
the  domestic  sphere  as  fully  as  I  do  that  of  busi 
ness.  Had  I  insisted  upon  her  doing  so  at  first, 
her  mind  would  never  have  become  warped,  nor 
her  desires  so  extravagant.  I  might  still  have  re 
tained  my  good  name, — have  still  been  engaged  ,. 
in  a  prosperous  business.  But  the  time  past  shall  <! 
suffice.  My  clear  convictions  of  right  shall  never 
yield  one  iota  to  her  whims,  passions  or  caprices." 
Riston  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  held,  so 
to  speak,  a  tight  rein  on  his  wife  ever  after.  She, 
it  must  be  said,  was  a  more  passive  subject  than 
before,  and  yielded  to  his  wishes  much  easier. 

jj  But .  she  was  not  happy.     She  hardly  ever  went 

out,  and  scarcely  any  of  her  old  friends  cared 
about  retaining  her  acquaintance.  At  home,  she 
drooped  about,  and  went  through  whatever  do- 

\ 


TRUE  LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.      139 

£         mestic  duties  she  had  to  perform,  as  if  she  were 
<>          an  automaton.     She  had  no  genuine  love  for  her 
husband,   and  he  felt  it.      Their  meetings  were 
cold,  and  their  intercourse  limited  to  a  few  com 
mon-place  remarks,  or  questions  and  answers  ne 
cessary   to  be   made.     Thus   passed   their   days, 
neither  of  them  caring  how  poon  the  time  came 
\         for  separation. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TRUE  LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.          J» 

IN  presenting  a  contrast  to  the  wise  and  pru- 
dent  conduct  of  Mrs.  Hartley,  we  have  kept  our 
leading  character  in  the  back  ground,  for  some 
time.  We  have  done  so  for  two  reasons, — in  order 
to  present  the  contrast ;  and,  because  we  did  not 
think  it  possible  to  give  picture  after  picture,  of 
the  quiet  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,  and  pre 
serve  sufficient  interest  to  compensate  the  reader. 
Anna,  it  has  been  seen,  acted  in  the  very  com 
mencement  of  her  married  life,  with  an  unselfish 


regard  to  the  good  of  her  husband.     She  could 


r 

140  THE   WIFE. 

have  yielded  passively  to  his  wishes,  and  become 
the  mistress  of  an  elegant  house  ;   and  she  had 
temptations  to  do  so,  that  few  women  so  situated, 
would  have  thought  of  resisting.     But  she  did  not          <; 
love  her  husband  blindly  nor  selfisnly,  but  wisely.          ;j 
She  thought  of  her  duty  as  a  wife,  and  manifested 
the  quality  of  her  love  by  the  right  performance          j! 
of  her  duties  from  the  first  day  of  her  marriage. 

But,  it  was  not  alone  in  a  due  regard  to  exter 
nal  things,  that  Anna  manifested  the  quality  of 


her  love.  She  sought  to  regulate  the  affections 
of  her  mind,  and  bring  them  into  due  subordina- 
tion  to  the  highest  and  purest  principles.  Her 
husband  had  his  weaknesses,  as  have  all  men  ;  his 
prejudices,  and  his  passions.  And  she  was  not 
free  from  imperfections.  Reason  told  her,  that 
if  evil  overcame  evil,  in  a  contention  between 
husband  and  wife,  victory  would  be  as  destructive 
to  happiness  as  defeat.  But,  that  if  evil  were 
overcome  of  good,  both  the  victor  and  the  van 
quished  would  be  wiser  and  better,  and  therefore 
happier  for  the  contest. 

In  acting  from  this  clear  sense  of  right,  Anna 
had  many  hard  contentions  with  herself.  When 
anything  like  an  arbitrary,  self-willed,  or  una- 
miable  trait  in  her  husband's  character  presented 
itself,  her  heart  felt  wounded,  or  inclined  to  meet 


<L^wo^-_*-w^-x~- 


TRUE  LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.      14-1 

j|  self-will  with  self-will,  or  arbitrary  words  and  con 
duct  with  stern  opposition.  But  reflection,  arid  a 
struggle  with  herself  for  the  mastery  over  the  ten 
dencies  of  a  naturally  evil  heart,  would  soon  make 
her  vision  clear,  and  her  mind  calm.  And  then 
she  could  act  the  wife's  true  part,  well  and  wisely. 
Hartley  was  not  so  blind  but  that  he  could  see 
all  this  in  Anna.  It  made  him  feel  humble  in 
spirit,  when,  after  some  slight  difference,  in  which 
he  had  spoken  with  a  warmth  bordering  on  un- 
kindness,  she  would  answer  in  gentle  terms,  that 
were  redolent  of  a  sweet,  forbearing  spirit;  or, 
when  he  had  opposed  his  wishes  to  hers,  she 
would  yield  to  his  desires  with  a  cheerful  grace, 
that  rebuked  his  own  eager  selfishness.  He  saw 
that,  in  every  contention,  she  gained  the  real  vic 
tory,  even  though  he,  in  appearance,  carried  the 
point  at  issue. 

"  God  bless  her !"  he  ejaculated  fervently,  as  he 
left  his  house  one  morning,  the  tears  coming  to 
his  eyes.  "  She  is  an  angel !  She  saves  me  from 
myself.  I  never  dreamed  that  I  was  so  self-willed, 
so  unamiable,  so  much  in  the  love  of  dominion  as 
I  am,  until  she  caused  me  to  see  my  own  heart 
clearly  reflected  from  the  bright  pure  surface  of 
her  own.  I  can  understand,  now.,  how  a  wife's 
character  elevates,  or  depresses  that  of  her  hus- 


L 


142  THE    WIFE. 

oand.  Had  she  been  different.  Had  she  been 
self-willed — even  as  self-willed  as  I  am.  Had  she 
been  fond  of  dress,  or  display,  or  admiration. 
Had  she  been,  in  fact,  anything  but  what  she  is, 
a  loving,  almost  faultless  wife,  I  tremble  to  think 
of  the  unhappy  influence  she  would  have  had 
upon  me.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  so  many 
faults  of  character  as  I  have ;  faults  that  a  selfish 
5  wife  would  have  confirmed,  but  which  my  own 

I  dear  Anna  helps  me  to  remove  at  the  same  time 

that  she  does  not  appear  to  see  them.     God  bless 
her!  I  say  again." 

This  warmly-uttered  tribute  to  the  virtues  of 

his  wife,  was  occasioned  by  some  one  of  the  many 

instances  of  forbearance  which  Mrs.  Hartley  was 

compelled  to  exercise  towards  her  husband,  who, 

excellent  as  he  was,  had  his  weak  points,  his  faults 

and  his  foibles.    But  her  manner  towards  him  was 

always  so  gentle  and  kind,  that  it  reproved  him  the 

instant  he  was  betrayed  into  any  act  or  word  that 

J  was  calculated  to  wound  or  disturb  her. 

i  They  had  been  married  for  six  months.    During 

t;  'hat  time  all  external  circumstances  had  conspired 

to  make  their  life  happy.     The  business  prospects 

of  Hartley  were  more   flattering   than   at   first. 

Trade  was  brisk,  and  sales  heavier  than  usual. 

No  wonder  that  they  could  live  in  sunshine,  with 

5 


1 

TRUE  LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.      143      > 

but  few  light  clouds  to  flit  over  their  sky.     But  a          j; 
change  came.     Let  us  see  how  it  affects  them. 

When  Hartley  reached  the  store  on  the  morn 
ing  just  referred  to,  he  found  both  of  his  partners 
greatly  disturbed  in  mind.  On  inquiring  the 
cause,  he  learned  that  letters  had  just  come  to 
hand  with  the  intelligence  of  three  heavy  fail 
ures  in  Cincinnati  of  houses  indebted  to  the  firm 
nearly  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

The  effect  of  this  disaster  upon  their  business, 
Hartley  at  once  saw.  The  same  firm  was  also 
largely  indebted  to  several  houses  in  Philadelphia, 
whose  condition  was  not  thought  to  be  sound,  and 

those   houses   in  turn,  were   debtors   to   R , 

S &  Co.  in  heavy  amounts.  Should  the  Cin 
cinnati  failures  prove  as  bad  as  the  first  intelli 
gence  represented  them  to  be,  it  was  a  matter  of 
great  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  consequences. 

R was  particularly  dispirited,  and  S ,  a 

man  of  much  stronger  nerves,  was  a  good  deal 
agitated. 

"Bad,  very  bad,  James,"  the.  latter  said  to 
Hartley.  "  I  am  afraid  it  will  break  us  up." 

The  young  man  turned  pale. 

"Oh,  no.  Hardly  so  bad  as  that, Mr.  S— ?w 
nc  replied  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  There  is  m  telling.     We  shall  be  crippled 


144  THE   WIFE. 

without  doubt.  There  is  a  fair  prospect  of  our 
losing  sixty  or  seventy  thousand  dollars,  by  these 
failures.  I  need  not  tell  you,  that  such  a  loss  will 
shake  us  to  the  foundation.  I  must  own,  that  I 
am  deeply  anxious  about  the  consequences." 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  sunk.  To  him, 
even  if  the  house  stood  firm,  the  effect  would  be 
severe.  If  sixty  thousand  dollars  were  lost,  or 
even  one-half  that  sum,  it  would  reduce  to  a  very 
small  amount  his  dividend  of  the  profits,  if  it  left 
him  anything  at  all.  His  first  thought  was  of  his  ? 
wife,  and,  as  her  image  arose  in  his  mind,  a  pang 
went  through  his  breast. 

During  the  morning,  a  hundred  floating  rumours 
assailed  the  ears  of  Hartley  and  his  associates  in 
business,  none  of  them  at  all  encouraging.  The 
whole  prospect  was  dark.  Every  one  who  had 
debtors  in  Cincinnati  was  alarmed.  A  dozen 
merchants,  there,  were  talked  of  as  affected  by  the 
failures  that  had  already  taken  place,  and  in  dan 
ger  of  suspending.  Several  of  these  were  also 

customers  of  R ,  S &  Co.,  who  held  their 

paper  to  considerable  amounts. 

In  this  state  of  anxious  uncertainty,  the  hours 
passed  on,  until  it  was  time  for  Hartley  to  go 
home.  He  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  meeting 
his  wife.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceal 


TRUE   LON'E   TRIED   AND   PROVED. 

what   he   felt  5   her  quick   eye  would   read  t&e 
change  in  his  feelings,  the  moment  he  came  in. 
*i  With  an  effort  to  appear  as  cheerful  and  free 

$  from   concern  as  usual,  Hartley  came  into   the 

presence  of  his  wife  at  dinner  time. 

"James!  What  is  the  matter?'  she  exclaimed, 
the  moment  Jier  eye  rested  upon  his  face.  "  Are 
you  not  well  ?" 

His  effort  to  put  on  the  appearances  of  a  qubt 
mind  had  proved  vain.  He  had  never  practi^d 
simulation,  and  could  not  do  it  now.  The  eager 
questions  of  Anna,  and  her  alarmed  face,  caused 
his  own  countenance  to  assume  an  expression  of 
deep  distress. 

«  Oh,  James !     What  has  happened?' 

"  Sit  down,  love,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  But 
do  not  be  alarmed.  It  may  not  be  as  bad  as  we 
fear." 

Hartley  said  this  in  a  voice  meant  to  quiet  the 
anxiety  of  his  wife.  But  she  grew  deadly  pale — 

"  My  father "  she  could  but  faintly  utter. 

"  0  no,  no.     Nothing  of  that,"  replied  Hartley, 

comprehending  the  nature  of  her  thoughts.    "  Youi 

^    •      father  and  mother,  and  all  belonging  to  them  are 

Well.     I  allude  to  my  business  affairs,  which  have 

suddenly  assumed  a  threatening  aspect." 

"Is  that  all?"  murmured  Anna,  in  a  faint  vc:c?f 
13 


1 4*6  THE   WIFE. 

nnking  into  her  husband's  arms.  "  I  feared  thai 
something  dreadful  had  happened." 

For  an  instant  Hartley  felt  vexed  at  the  indif 
ference  shown  by  his  wife  in  a  matter  that  went 
to  his  very  heart.  But  the  re^ef  this  seeming  in 
difference  afforded  his  own  mind  was  so  great, 
that  he  began  to  feel  half-ashamed  of  himself  for 
discovering  so  much  agitation. 

"  That  is  all,"  he  returned,  after  a  short  silence, 
in  a  calm  voice.  "  But  to  me,  it  is  a  very  serious 
matter." 

"  And  if  to  you,  is  it  not  the  same  to  me '?" 
quickly  replied  Anna,  perceiving  in  a  moment, 
the  impression  her  remark  had  made.  "  Vague 
fears  were  instantly  excited  by  your  looks  and 
words,  and  they  always  create  a  paralyzed  con 
dition  of  mind.  But,  tell  me,  dear  husband !  what 
has  happened  ?  No  matter  what  it  is — no  matter 
how  it  affects  us  externally,  it  shall  find  your  wife 
unchanged.  She  will  stand  firmly  by  your  side, 
if  all  the  world  forsake  you.  Speak  to  me  freely. 
Do  not  fear  for  me.  Am  I  not  your  wife  ?" 

"  Yes — you  are  truly,  my  wife — my  angel~wifet 
— my  guide,  my  companion,  my  comforter.  Feel  • 
ing  now,  how  rich  I  am  in  possessing  the  love  of 
i  true  heart  like  yours,  it  hardly  seems  possible, 
that  a  little  while  ?cro,wit5i  tb»-  chno-er  of  the  ruin 


TRUE  LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.     147 

of  our  house  by  heavy  failures  in  the  West,  look 
ing  me  in  the  face,  my  spirits  could  have  been  so 
prostrated.     But  it  was  of  you  that  I  thought.     I          i 
trembled  at  the  prospect  of  a  change  that  would 
affect  you." 

"  Think  not  of  me.  Fear  not  for  me.  Come 
what  will,  if  I  retain  your  love  and  your  confi 
dence,  I  shall  be  happy.  But  what  has  happened, 
James  ?  Don't  hesitate  to  tell  me  all."  $ 

S  ' 

£  Hartley  briefly  related  what  the  reader  already 

knows  in  regard  to  the  certain  and  probable  losses 
that  would  be  sustained  by  the  Cincinnati  failures. 

"  What  the  effect  will  be,"  he  said,  in  conclu 
sion,  "  cannot  now  be  told.  It  may  force  us  to 
close  up  our  business  and  dissolve  the  firm.  Most 
certainly,  it  will  reduce  my  income  for  the  next 
year  very  low,  if  not  cut  it  off  altogether." 

In  uttering  the  last  sentence,  Hartley's  voice 
trembled. 

"My  dear  husband,"  quickly  replied  Anna, 
with  a  smile,  and  speaking  in  a  calm  tone  of  voice. 
"  You  believe  in  an  overruling  Providence ;  and 
you  know  that  whatever  befalls  us  here,  is  of 
divine  permission,  and  intended  for  our  good." 

"  I  know  it,  Anna,  but  it  is  hard  to  feel  that  it 

12  80." 

"  And  yet  it  is  so.     We  know  it  is  so.     TOM 


.48  THE    WIFE. 

is  faith;  but  faith  that  is  only  in  the  understanding 
is  nothing.  The  heart  must  give  its  affirmation  aa 
well  as  the  thought.  Let  our  hearts  do  this. 
We  believe  the  threatened  events,  if  they  do  take 
place,  will  be  wisely  ordered  or  permitted  for  our 
spiritual  good.  On  this  rock  let  us  plant  our  feet, 
and  the  waters  may  rage  around  us  in  vain. 
Think,  for  a  moment ;  if  reverses  are  necessary, 
in  order  that  our  minds  may  be  opened  more  inte 
riorly  towards  heaven,  through  trials  and  changes 
in  our  external  lives,  would  you,  if  you  had  your 
choice,  and  your  thoughts  were  clear  and  calm, 
hesitate  to  choose  the  rougher  way  in  life  ?  James, 
I  am  sure  you  would  not !  What  is  our  brief  day 
here,  compared  to  an  eternal  state  hereafter  ?  This 
is  the  way  for  us  to  think  and  feel." 

"  True,  Anna ;  still  it  is  hard,  very  hard,  for 
me  to  feel  as  well  as  think  so  wisely.  If  my 
thoughts  were  clear  and  calm,  and  the  choice 
were  presented,  I  believe  I  would  choose  the  bet 
ter  part.  But,  the  great  difficulty  is,  to  keep  off 
doubt  and  fear,  that  cloud  and  disturb  the  mind. 
If  I  could  see  it  all  as  clear  as  I  now  do,  it  would 
be  easy  enough.  But,  the  moment  I  direct  my 
mind  to  the  circumstances  that  surround  me,  and 
•ee  the  ruin  of  all  my  worldly  prospects  staring 


LOVE  TRIED  AND  PROVED.      149 

me  in  the  face,  I  cannot  help  trembling.  I  am 
no  longer  looking  up,  but  downward." 

"  Let  it,  then,  be  my  task  to  point  your  eyes 
upward.  You,  mingling  in  the  busy  strife  of  men, 
and  surrounded  by  the  sphere  oi*  business,  with  its 
anxiety  and  care,  and  fears  of  the  loss  of  worldly 
goods  and  worldly  honours,  must,  necessarily,  be 
influenced  by  the  quality  of  this  sphere,  and  have 
your  mind  affected  with  like  anxieties,  and  cares, 
and  fears.  But  I  live  in  another  sphere.  I 
cannot  be  affected,  daily,  as  you  are.  I  can  look  J- 
up  with  a  steadier  eye.  Mine,  then,  shall  be  the  \ 

duty  of  holding  up  your  hands.  When  cares  op 
press  you,  come  to  me,  and  I  will  show  you  how 
vain  they  are ;  if  anxious,  lean  upon  me,  and  I 
will  give  you  to  feel,  that  no  one  need  be  anxious, 
while  the  Lord  rules  in  heaven  and  earth.  If 
we  must  take  a  lower  position  in  life,  I  will  take 
it  with  you,  and  encourage  you,  if  you  fear,  in 
descending."  ; 

As  Mrs.  Hartley  spoke,  with  a  warmly  eloquent          l»" 
voice,  her  face  beamed  in  beauty  that  was  not  of          J 
the  earth,  earthy.    In  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  she 
had  always  borne  a  lovely  countenance,  but  she 
was  lovelier  now  than  ever.     Clasping  her  with 
tender  earnestness  in  his  arms,  he  said — 

"May  Heaven  shower  upon  you  its  choicest 
13* 


150  THE   WIFE. 

blessings ,  You  n^ake  me  ashamed  of  my  own  weak 
ness;  of  my  own  want  of  trust  in  the  Providence, 
that  I  know  governs  all  things  well.     With  you 
by  my  side,  life's  journey  can  never  be  a  very 
painful  one;  for  you  will  make  for  me  all  the         s 
rough   places   of  peevish   nature,   even.      Come 
what  will,  whether  prosperity  or  adversity,  I.  shall          ;, 
ever  find  your  heart  as  true  to  love,  as  is  the  nee 
dle  to  the  pole." 

"  Yes,  ever,"  was  the  low,  murmured  reply. 

i 


CHAPTER  XVH.  5 

A     CHANGE. 

HAIITLEY  returned  to  the  store,  after  dinner,          ; 
feeling  much  more  as  a  man  should  feel,  under 
circumstances  of  trial,  than  he  did  in  the  morning 
The  afternoon  brought  further  intelligence  from          i 
the  west.     It  was  decisive.     The  houses  that  had          f? 
suspended  payment  would  each  make  a  most  dis» 
astrous  failure,  and  it  was  almost  certain  would 
carry  two  others  with  them,  both  of  which  were 
indebted  to  R .  S &  Co. 


A    CHANGE.  151 

When  Hartley  came  home  at  nignt,  his  mind 
•j  *^&s  again  overshadowed.  Anna  had  suffered  a 
good  deal  during  the  afternoon,  for  her  husband's 
sake.  She  could  enter  into  and  understand  his 
feelings,  and  she  therefore  knew  how  hard  a  trial 
he  had  to  bear  in  the  threatened  ruin  of  his  bright 
hopes  of  worldly  success.  Nor  was  she  indiffer 
ent,  so  far  as  herself  was  concerned.  To  all,  pros- 
j  pe-rity  and  the  temporal  blessings  it  brings,  is 
peasant.  And  Mrs.  Hartley  could  enjoy  them  as 
well  as  others.  It  was  not,  therefore,  without  an 
earnest  struggle  with  herself,  that  she  could  rise, 
really,  into  that  state  of  composure  and  trust  in 
Providence,  that  she  had  so  strongly  urged  upon 
her  husband.  When  he  came  in,  at  the  close  of 
day,  she  saw  that  he  was  again  depressed  in 
spirits;  and  again  she  sought  to  raise  his  thoughts 
above  the  mere  fact  of  present  temporal  losses,  to  J 
a  realization  of  the  truth  that  all  things  are  made, 
in  the  Divine  Providence,  to  wo^k  together  for  \ 
good.  In  this,  as  before,  she  was  successful,  even  J 
though  more  recent  intelligence  than  that  received  \ 
in  the  morning,  tended  to  confirm  Hartley's  worst 
lears.  .<; 

On  the  day  following,  things  looked  still  more 
gloomy.  A  week  elapsed,  and  all  yet  remained 
dark  and  threatening.  A  month  passed,  and  the 


r 


152  THE   WIFE 


house  of  R  -  ,  S  -  &  Co.,  considered  one  01 

<j  the  most  promising  in  the  city,  suspended  pay- 

j  ment,  and  commenced  winding  up  its  business. 

There  was  property  enough  to  pay  off  all  the 

debts,  and  leave  something  over.    But,  as  Hartley 

had  put  in  no  capital,  and  all  the  profits  and  more 

|   .       than  half  of  the  capital  had  been  lost,  he  went 

out  of  the  concern  with  less  than  a  hundred  dol 

lars  in  his  pocket  ;   the  two  senior  partners  re 

maining  to  close  up  every  thing.     Requiring  the 

|          services   of  some   one,   R  -  &  S  -  offered 

Hartley  a  salary  of  one  thousand  dollars,  which 

he  gladly  accepted,  and  from  a  merchant,  with 

large  expectations,  fell  back  into  his  former  ca- 

|          pacity  of  a  clerk.    It  required  all  the  young  man's 

?          philosophy,  aided  by  the  hopeful,  trusting  spirit 

of  his  wife,  to  bear  up  with  anything  like  forti 

tude.     For  the  sake  of  her  who  was  loved  beyond 

!j  what  words  could  express,  he  grieved  more  deeply 

'  over  this  reverse,  than  he  would  have  done  had 

I;  he  stood  alone  in  the  world.     She  would  have  to 

bear  half  of  the  burden,  and  the  thought  of  this 

touched  him  to  the  quick. 

As  soon  as  Anna  knew  that  her  husband  had 
dissolved  all  connection  with  the  house  in  which 
DC  had  been  a  partner,  and  that  his  income  wa» 


A   CHANGE  153 

\ 

fixed  at  one  thousand  dollars  per  annum,  she  said 
j  •        to  him  with  a  cheerful  face  and  tone, 

"  We  must  look  out  for  another  house,  James ; 
the  rent  of  this  one  is  too  high  for  us,  DOW." 
j  "  I  don't  know,  Anna  ;  I  think  I  can  srill  man 

age  to  pay  three  hundred  dollars.  I  have  partly 
engaged  to  post  a  set  of  books,  which  I  can  do  by 
$  de7oting  a  couple  of  hours  to  it  every  evening. 
If  I  will  undertake  them,  it  will  increase  my  in 
come  nearly  three  hundred  dollars.  I  would 
rather  do  it,  than  move.  I  can't  bear  the  thougnt 
of  that.  We  live  so  comfortably  and  genteelly 
here.  It  will  be  impossible  to  get  a  house  that  is 
respectable,  for  a  rent  low  enough  to  make  it  an 


object  to  give  up  this  one." 


"  So  far  as  mere  appearance  is  concerned. 
James,"  replied  his  wife,  "I  do  not  think  we 
should  consider  that.  What  is  right  for  us  to  do  1 
That  should  be  the  question.  Is  it  right  to  live 
up  close  to  our  income?" 

"  I  think  not,"  Hartley  could  not  help  replying. 

"  Can  you,  after  being  closely  engaged  all  day, 
post  books  for  two  or  three  hours  every  evening, 
without  affecting  your  health  ?"  pursued  Anna. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell." 

uls  it  not  reasonable  to  conclude  that  such 
incessant  application  would  be  injurious  ?  I  think 


4  THE   WIFE. 

BO.  How  much  better  would  it  be  to  get  a  smaller 
house,  farther  from  the  centre  of  the  city,  and  re 
duce  all  of  our  expenses  to  the  lowest  scale.  If 
<*9od  fortune  again  smile  upon  us,  we  can  easily 
procure  all  we  now  relinquish.  I  am  sure  that  1 
can  be  just  as  happy  in  a  house  that  costs  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars,  as  I  can  be  in  one  at  five 
times  the  rent.  Cannot  you  be  ?" 

"  I  ought  to  be  happy,  anywhere,  with  you. 
But,  the  *ruth  is,  it  wounds  my  pride  to  think  of 
removing  you  to  a  lower  condition.  I  would 
gladly  place  you  on  a  throne,  so  to  speak,  if  in 
my  power." 

"  You  cannot  depress  me  below  my  true  con 
dition,  nor  elevate  me  above  it,"  Mrs.  Hartley 
said,,  half-smiling,  half-serious.  "  There  is  One  who 
gees  the  end  from  the  beginning — One  who  govern* 
all  things  with  infinite  wisdom — He  will  take  care 
that  I  am  ever  in  my  right  place.  But  I  must 
be  a  co-worker  with  Providence,  in  freedom  ac 
cording  to  reason.  The  same  is  true,  in  regard  to 
yourself.  Let  us  then  use  the  reason  that  has 
been  given  us,  and  act  from  its  dictates,  in  perfect 
freedom  from  all  selfishness  or  pride,  or  false 
views  of  our  relations  in  life.  If  you  seek  my 
happiness,  do  it  in  this  way,  foi  in  this  way  alone 
can  you  secure  it." 


... 


CHANGE.  J  55 


Hartley  could  not  withstand  the  force  of  truth 
from  the  lips  of  so  eloquent  a  reasoner.  Three 
weeks  more  elapsed.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  a 
snug  little  house  in  the  district  of  Spring  Garden 
held  the  young  couple.  Were  they  less  happy  ? 
No !  Hartley's  salary  was  ample,  and  he  felt  tha 
he  was  still  independent,  and  that  his  wife  had 
every  comfort  she  desired.  Their  house  was  no 
less  tastefully  arranged  than  the  one  they  had  left. 
It  was  only  smaller.  But  what  of  that  ?  They 
had  room  enough  and  to  spare. 

u  Is  it  not  much  better  to  be  here,"  Anna  said, 
as  they  sat  together  one  evening  in  their  little 
parlour,  before  a  cheerful  grate,  "  than  for  me  to 
\         be  alone  in  a  larger  house,  and  you  away  toiling, 
<         wearily,  beyond  your  strength,  to  get  the  means 
of  keeping  up  appearances  ?     I  am  sure  it  is." 

"  Yes,  Anna,  it   is  better!"  Hartley   replied. 
"We  were  no  happier  before  than  we  are  now." 
"  Suppose  we  had  rented  the  house  in  Walnut 
street,"  Anna  said,  with  an  arch  look. 

"  Hush !"  and  Hartley  put  his  fingers  on  the 
>         iijtf  of  his  wife,  playfully.     "  Don't  remind  me 
of  my  weakness.     If  you  had  been  a  woman  at  all 
like  Mrs.  Riston,  how  quickly  you  might  have 
ruined  me '" 


J 


r 


156  THE   WIFE. 

•*  And  made  you  and  myself  both  unhappy  for 
life.  I  am  not  like  her,  James." 

"  No  ;  thank  Heaven !  You  are  like  nobody 
but  your  own  dear  self!  You  are  a  wise  and 
prudent  woman,  and  a  loving  wife." 

"  I  can  bear  to  hear  my  praises  spoken  by  your 
iips,"  Anna  returned,  leaning  her  head  back  upon 
the  breast  of  her  husband,  and  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  a  fond,  happy  smile. 

"  It  comes  from  the  heart — be  sure  of  that." 

"  And  reaches  the  heart  ere  the  words  are  half- 
uttered,"  was  the  blushing  reply. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

CONCLUSION. 

THREE  months  more  elapsed,  when  an  event, 
looked  for  with  hope  and  trembling  anxiety,  trans 
pired.  A  new  chord  vibrated  in  Anna's  heart, 
and  the  music  was  sweeter  far  in  her  spirits 
ear,  than  any  before  heard.  She  was  changed. 
Suddenly  she  felt  that  she  was  a  new  creature.  Her 
breast  was  filled  with  deeper,  purer,  and  tenderer 


CONCLUSION.  157 

emotions.     She  was  a  mother !     A  babe  had  been 

!  born  to  her  !     A  sweet  pledge  of  love  lay  nestling 

by  her  side,  and  drawing  its  life  from  her  bosom. 

«          She  was  happy — how  happy  cannot  be  told.     A 

mother  only  can  feel  how  hap^.y  she  was  on  first 

realizing  the  new  emotions  that  thrill  in  a  young 

mother's  heart. 

As  health  gradually  returned  to  her  exhausted 
;          frame,  and  friends  gathered  around  her  with  warm 
congratulations,  Anna  felt  that  she  was  indeed  be 
ginning  a  new  life.     Every  hour  her  soul  seemed 
s          to  enlarge,  and  her  mind  to  be  filled  with  higher 
j|         and   purer   thoughts.      Before  the   birth  of  her 
5;          oabe,  she  suffered  much  more  than  even  her  hus 
band  had  supposed,  both  in  body  and  mind.     Her 
spirits  were  often  so  depressed  that  it  required  her 
utmost  effort  to  receive  him  with  her  accustomed 
cheerfulness  at  each  period  of  his  loved  return. 
But,  living  as  she  did  in  the  ever  active  endeavour 
to  bless  others,  she  strove  daily  and  hourly  to  rise 
j          above  every  infirmity.     Now,  all  was  peace  within 
— holy  peace.     There   came  a   Sabbath   rest  of 
deep,  interior  joy,  that  was  sweet,  unutterably 
'}         gweet.     Body  and   spirit  entered  into  this   rest. 
No  wind  ruffled  the  still,  bright  waters  of  her  life. 
She  was  the  same,  and  yet  not  the  same. 

u  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear  husband !  how  happy 
\  14 


lf>8  THE   WIFE. 

I  am,"  she  said,  a  few  weeks  after  her  babe  wai 
born.     "  Nor  can  I  describe  the  different  emotions 
that  pervade  my  heart.     When  our  babe  is  in  my          j 
<irms,  and  especially  when  it  lies  at  my  bosom,  it 
seems  as  if  angels  were  near  me." 

5  "And  angels  are  near  you,"  replied  her  hus-         !> 

band.    "Angels   love  innocence,  and  especially 
infants,  that  are  forms  of  innocence.     They  are 
present  with  them,  and  the  mother   shares  the 
j;          blessed  company,  for  she  loves  her  babe  with  an 
j;          unselfish  love,  and  this  the  angels  can  perceive, 
j;          and,  through  it,  affect  her  with  a  measure  of  their         ;5 
>          own  happiness."  ;• 

"How  delightful  the  thought!     Above  all,  is 
j          the  mother  blessed.     She  suffers  much" — her  bur-         £ 
!j          den  is  hard  to  bear — the  night  is  dark — but  the 


morning  that  opens  upon  her  is  the  brightest  a  hu 
man  soul  knows  during  its  earthly  pilgrimage. 
And  no  wonder.  She  has  performed  the  highest 
and  holiest  of  offices — she  has  given  birth  to  an 
I;  immortal  being — and  her  reward  is  with  her." 

Hartley  had  loved  his  wife  truly,  deeply,  ten 
derly.  Every  day,  he  saw  more  and  more  in  her 
to  admire.  There  was  an  order,  consistency,  and 
harmony  in  her  character  as  a  wife,  that  won  his 
admiration.  In  the  few  months  they  had  passed 
since  their  marriage,  she  had  filled  her  place  to 


CONCLUSION. 


him,  perfectly.  Without  seeming  to  reflect  how 
she  should  regulate  her  conduct  towards  her  hus 
band,  in  every  act  of  her  wedded  life  she  had  dis 
play  ec1  true  wisdom,  united  with  unvarying  IOVP, 
All  this  caused  his  heart  to  unite  itself  more  and  more  jj 

closely  with  hers.    But  now,  that  she  held  to  him  •! 

tne  twofold  relation  of  a  wife  and  mother,  his 
love  was  increased  fourfold.  He  thought  of  her, 
and  looked  upon  her,  with  increased  tenderness. 

"  Mine,  by  a  double  tie,"  he  said,  with  a  full  s 

realization  of  his  words,  when  he  first  pressed  his  J 

lips  upon  the  brow  of  his  child,  and  then,  with  a 
fervour  unfelt  before,  upon  the  lips  of  his  wife.  < 

"As  you  have  been  a  good  wife,  you  will  be  a 
good  mother,"  he  added,  with  emotion. 

Hereafter  we  must  know  Mrs.  Hartley  in  the 
twofold  character  of  wife  and  mother,  for  they 
are  inextricably  blended.  Thus  far,  scarcely  a  5 

year  has  passed  since  the  maiden  became  the  wife. 
But  little  presents  itself  in  the  first  year  of  a  wo 
man's  married  history,  of  deep  interest.  Her  li  fe 
is  more  strongly  marked  internally  than  externally.  ;> 

She  feels  much,  but  the  world  sees  little,  and  little 
can  be  brought  forth  to  view.     The  little  that  we          ;> 
could  present.  *n  the  history  of  our  gentle,  true-  $ 

hearted   fnenu,  with  some  strong   contrasts,  has  £ 

been  presented.     Enough  is  apparent,  we  ho}>«, 

j 


160  THE   WIFE. 

to  enable  us  to  say  to  the  young  -wife,  "Go  thou 
and  do  likewise."  Enough  to  make  all  feel  the 
loveliness  of  her  example. 

The  change  in  her  husband's  external  condition 
was  good  for  them  both.  It  tried  their  characters 
in  the  beginning,  and,  more  than  anything  else  ;> 
that  had  occurred,  made  Hartley  sensible  of  the  ,s 
real  worth  of  a  prudent  and  self-denying  wife. 
Although  months  had  elapsed  since  he  was  sud 
denly  thrown  down  from  a  position  so  full  of  pro 
mise,  into  one  comparatively  discouraging  to  a 
man  of  an  active,  ambitious  spirit,  he  still  re-  j 
mained  a  clerk,  with  no  prospect  of  rising  above 
that  condition.  Had  his  wife  seemed  in  the  least 
degree  to  feel  this  change,  it  would  have  chafed 
him  sorely.  He  would  have  been  unhappy.  But 
she  was  so  cheerful  and  contented,  and  made 
everything  so  comfortable,  and  regulated  her 
household  expenses,  without  appearing  to  think 
about  doing  so,  according  to  her  husband's  reduced 
income,  that  he  was  rarely  ever  more  than  half- 
conscious  while  at  home,  that  he  was  not  in  the 
receipt  of  over  one-third  ui  his  former  income. 

If  we  were  to  lift  for  the  reader,  a  moment  or 
two,  the  veil  that  hides  Mr.  Kiston  and  his  wife 
from  the  public  eye,  a  very  different  picture  from 
this  would  be  seen.  But  we  care  no  to  «fc  so. 


CONCLUSION.  Ifii 

The  sayings  ?nd  doings  of  Mrs.  R.  have  already 
filled  more  than  a  fair  proportion  of  our  pages, 
Their  moral  needs  no  further  expositions  to  give 
them  force. 

Poor  Florence  Armitage  has  had  reason,  already, 
to  repent  of  her  marriage.  But  who  will  wonder 
at  that?  We  may  have  cause  to  bring  her  again 
before  the  reader. 


TBS  BHB 


THE  MOTHER. 


BY  T.  8.  ARTHUR. 


TO  THE  READER. 


I 

j  Iii  this  little  voiume,  the  author  has  not  attempt 

ed  to  lay  down  any  regular  system  of  domestic 
education.  His  object  has  been  to  present  leading 
principles — partially  brought  out  into  life  to  give 
hem  a  force  beyond  a  mere  didactic  enunciation — 
from  which  every  thoughtful  mother  may  deduce 
rules  for  specific  application  in  her  own  family. 
The  book  is  rather  a  series  of  domestic  pictures 
than  a  sustained  narrative.  This  latter  character 
could  not  have  been  given  to  it  without  a  sacrifice 

<  of  much  that  the  author  wished  to  present.  He 
hopes  that  it  will  be  useful.  He  is  sure  that  if 

>         will  be  «^  if  read  arif  bt 


\  \ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  i 


5 

CHAPTER  II. 

5  BEGINNING  RIGHT..  .-.-..  ^.-..^..-^.-.w...-»-^.  .-.~      17 

f 

CHAPTER  III. 

J;  MEANS  AND  ENDS..  -.-,,..  ^..^..-^....-~*^..<,-.-.-^..      22 

CHAPTER  IV. 

jj  THK  SECRET  OF  GOVERNING  CHILDREN  .  .-»-..^.-»-^....      33 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE  .  .._**  ....*„  ^-^^-^..-^^»^»    37 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  BIRifl-DAY  PARTY.  ^-^,»^.,-^...^-<.^^»*^      54 

CHAPEER  VII. 

CORRECTING  A  7AULT.  ^»-^.  ^^-^.—^..  ^-^^-^.^.^-^      64 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  STRONG  CONTRAST..  72 


CHAPTER  XII. 


\\  Tl  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  K. 

MORE  CONTB ASTS..  »-_. . .^—^-»-^...^.  ..».,...„      81 

CHAPTER  X. 

FRUIT.  .T^.^.^^^^.^.^.^....^.^^..^.,..      92 

CHAPTER  XI. 

S  AN  AGREEABLE  SURPRISE. .».  ^    103 


GOING  INTO  COMPANY  ^^-_  »-^  .-^  _^.  „..  .  -^^*..    Ill  ;! 

t 

CHAPTER  XHI. 

^ 

A  PAINFUL  BEREAVEMENT..  -_*-.,,  .  .^»-^^^«-^  .  .-^.  .  .  *    120 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN  IMPORTANT  ERA  IN  LIFE.  .-„++-*.„.»+*+  +-+.^^+-+    130  J 

CHAPTER  XV. 

HAPPY  CONSUMMATIONS...  ,...»-^<-,-»-^^^.^  ^-^,»-^»    136 

CHAPTER  XYT. 

-^*.^-^^-^-^-^**.  »»*»»»*»*•»***    140 


THE   MOTHER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUC  TION. 

,;  <J 

SUMMER  had  passed  away,  and  autumn  had 
ff  verged  on  towards  winter.  Instead  of  a  brief,  sul 
try  twilight,  there  were  long  evenings,  and  pleasant 
;;  gatherings  of  the  family  circle.  Care  looked  more 
£  cheerful ;  there  was  a  light  on  the  wan  cheek  of 
\  Sickness ;  and  Labour  sung  merrrily  as  she  turned 
$  her  wheel. 

His  daily  labours  ended,  James  Hartley  returned 

home  on  such  an  evening,  his  step  light,  his  mind 

;>         clear,  and  his  spirits  buoyant.     Scarcely  a  year  had 

passed  since  the  wreck  of  his  worldly  prospects ; 

but  in  that  time,  the  reacting  strength  of  a  manly 

character  had  lifted  his  bowed  head  and  fixed  with 

,| 

confidence  his  steady  eye.  But  this  result  would 
have  taken  place  slowly  and  imperfectly  under 
other  circumstances  and  different  influences  from 


5 


^  8  THE    MOTHER.  < 

those  with  which  he  was  surrounded.    He  owed 
much  to  the  cheerful  temper  and  hopeful  spirit  of         $ 
his  wife.     So  far  from  murmuring  at  the  change  in 
£  their  prospects,  or  permitting  her  husband  to  mur 

mur,  every  allusion  to  this  change  was  accompa 
nied  by  Mrs.  Hartley  with  expressions  of  thankful 
ness  that  all  the  real  blessings  the  world  had  to 
give  were  left  them. 

"  We  have  more  than  enough  for  all  our  wants," 
she  would  say — "  And  besides,  we  have  each  other, 
and  our  dear  little  Marien.     Do  you  think  we  have        | 
reason  to  complain  ?     No — you  cannot.     Our  cup 
is  not  empty — it  is  full  to  the  brim."  5 

As  was  ever  the  case,  a  smile  of  welcome  greeted         ;> 
Hartley  on  entering  his  pleasant   home.     But  it         jj 
seemed  to  him,  after  the  smile  had  died  away,  that 
there  was  a  thoughtful  expression  upon  Anna's  brow.         | 
This  grew  distinct  to  his  eye,  as  he  observed  her         I 

face  more  carefully. 

*  4 

"  Is  Marien   asleep  ?"  he  asked,  soon  after  he 
came  in.  ^ 

u  5Tes.     She  was  tired,  and  went  to  sleep  early. 
I  tried  to  keep  her  awake  until  you  came  home,         «[ 
but  she  was  so  drowsy  and  fretful,  that  I  thought 
it  best  to  put  her  to  bed." 

"Dear  little  creature!" 
\  "She  is  a  sweet  child." 


INTRODUCTION.  • 

a  A  sweeter  one  cannot  be  found.  As  she  grows 
older,  how  much  delight  we  shall  take  in  seeing 
her  mind  expand,  and  become  filled  with  images 

I        of  all  that  is  lovely  and  innocent.    As  the  twig  is 
bent,  so  is  the  tree  inclined.     Anna,  all  we  have  to 

\        do  is  to  bend  this  twig  aright.     Heaven's  rain  and 
sunshine  will  do  the  rest." 

|  "  To  bend  it  aright  may  not  be  so  easy  a  task  as 

you  suppose,  James." 

"  Perhaps  not.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me,  that  a 
wise  course  of  government,  carefully  pursued,  must 
produce  the  desired  result." 

!  "To  determine  wisely  is   not  always  in   our         I> 

power.     Ah,  James !  It  is  that  thing  of  determining 

jj         wisely,  that  gives  me  the  greatest  concern.     I  be-          > 
lieve  that  I  could  faithfully  carry  out  any  system 
of  government,  were  I  only  well  satisfied  of  its 
being  the  true  one.     But,  so  conscious  am  I,  that, 
if  in  the  system  I  adopt  there  be  a  vital  error,  the          '<; 
effect  will  be  lastingly  injurious  to  our  child,  that          'J 
I  hesitate  and  tremble  at  every  step.     The  twig 
that  shoots  forth,  unwarped  by  nature,  pliant  and 
graceful,  may  be  trained  to  grow  in  almost  any 
direction.     But  our  child  is  born  with  an  evil  and 
perverse  will — a  will  thoroughly  depraved." 

"  That  I  do  not  like  to  admit ;  and  yet  I  believe 
it  to  be  too  true." 


10  THE    MOTHER. 

s 
"  Alas !  it  is  but  too  true,  James.     It  needs  not 

Revelation  to  tell  us  this.     Already  the  moral  de 
formity  we  have  entailed  upon  our  child,  is  show-         § 
ing  itself  every  day. — How  shall  we  correct  it  ? — 
How  shall  we  change  it  into  beauty  ?    I  think  of  this 
almost  every  hour,  and  sometimes  it  makes  me  feel 
sad.    It  is  easy  to  say — '  Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the         \ 
tree's  inclined' — but  it  is  not  so  easy  a  thing  to  bend 
the  human  twig  as  you  will.    There  is  great  danger 
of  creating  one  deformity  in  the  effort  to  correct 
another ;  or  of  checking,  in  its  flow,  the  healthy 
sap  by  undue  pressure.     And    still  further;    our 
own  states  of  mind,  from  various  causes,  are  ever 
changing,  and  from  these  changes  result  obscurity,         j 
or  a  new  direction  of  our  thoughts.     What  seems 
of  the  first  moment  to-day,  is  not  so  considered  to 
morrow,  because  other  ideas  are  more  distinctly         \ 
^          before  our  minds  and  throw  things  of  equal  im 
portance  into  obscurity.      Our  own   uncorrected 
hereditary  evils  are  also  in  our  way,  and  hinder  us         s 
from  either  seeing  aright  or  doing  aright." 

"  You  are  disposed  to  look  at  the  gloomy  side 
of  the  picture,  Anna,"  replied  her  husband,  smiling, 
u  Suppose  you  take  a  more  encouraging  view."  |> 

"  Show  me  the  bright  side,  James.  I  will  look 
at  it  with  pleasure."  ;j 

w  There  is  a  bright  side,  Anna — every  thing  b 


INTRODUCTION.  1 » 

*  aunny  side;  but  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  in  my 

power  to  show  you  the  sunny  side  of  this  picture 
;         I  will,  however,  present  to  your  mind  a  truth  that 

may  suggest  many  others  of  an  encouraging  nature.  ? 
j  •  Into  right  ends  there  flows  a  perception  of  true  j 
j  means.  Do  you  not  believe  this  ?"  j 

"  I  have  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing  it  to  be 

true." 
«!  "Can  there  be  a  higher  or  holier  end  than  a 

mother's,  when  she  proposes  to  herself  the  good 

of  her  child?" 

« I  believe  not." 

"  Into  that  end  will  there  most  assuredly  be  an          \ 

\         influx  of  wisdom  to  discover  the  true  means.     Do          J> 

not  despond,  then.     As  your  day  is,  so  will  your 

strength  be." 

Anna  sighed  heavily,  but  made  no  reply  for  some 
<         moments.     She  was  too  deeply  conscious  of  her 

ignorance  of  the  true  means,  to  feel  a  profound 
s         confidence  in  the  practical  bearing  of  the  principles          jj 
t,         that  her  husband  had  declared,  and  which  reason 

told  her  were  true. 

"  It  is  easy  to  theorize,"  she  at  length  said.    u  It 

is  pleasant  to  the  mind  to  dwell  upon  true  princi-  ; 

pies,  and  see  how  they  apply  in  real  life.    But,  it 

is  a  different  matter  when  we  come  to  bring  down 

these  theories  ourselves.     There  is  in  us  so  much 


IS  THE   MOTHER. 


that  hinders. — Self  love,  indolence,  pride,  and  a 
thousand  other  things,  come  between  our  good 
purposes  and  their  accomplishment." 
j>              "  True.    But,  on  the  side  of  good  resolutions,  is 
One  who  is  all " 

u  Right,  my  dear  husband ! — Right !"  exclaimed 
j>  Anna,  interrupting  him.  "He  that  is  for  us  is 
more  than  all  who  are  against  us.  If  I  can  only 
fix  my  confidence,  like  an  anchor  to  the  soul,  upon 
Him,  all  the  rough  places  of  peevish  nature  will  be 
made  even — light  will  break  in  from  a  dark  sky 
— I  shall  see  clearly  to  walk  in  right  paths." 

"  Ever  let  us  both  strive  to  fix  our  confidence 
upon  God,"  responded  Hartley  in  a  low  but  ear 
nest  voice.     "  If  we  do  so,  we  shall  not  find  our         I 
duty  so  hard  to  perform  as  at  first  sight  it  may  ap 
pear  to  us.     Angels  love  infants  and  children  most         ^ 
tenderly,  and  they  will  be  our  teachers  if  we  keep 
our  minds  elevated  above  all  mere  worldly  and         < 
selfish  ends,  and  seek  only  the  highest  good  for 
our  offspring."  £ 

"  The  highest  good, — Yes,  that  must  be  our  aim. 
But  do  we  agree  as  to  what  is  the  highest  good  ?" 

u  An  important  question,  Anna.     If  we  do  not         ; 
agree,  our  task  will  be  a  difficult  one      What  do 
you  call  the  highest  good  ?" 

Anna  mused  for  some  time, 


INTRODUCTION.  IS 

*  The  highest  good — the  highest  good — "  sh« 
murmured  abstractedly.  "  Is  it  wealth  ? — Honour  f 
The  love  and  praise  of  men  ? — The  attainment  of 
all  earthly  blessings  ? — No — no. — These  can  only 
continue  for  a  time.     This  life  is  a  brief  season  at 
best — :a  mere  point  in  our  being-— a  state  of  prepa- 
,.         ration  for  our  real  and  true  existence.    In  seeking 
f         the  highest  good  of  our  child,  we  must  look  beyond 
the  *  bounds  of  time  and  space.'  " 

"  If  we  do  not,  Anna,  our  seeking  for  the  good 
i         of  our  child  will  be  in  vain.     But,  after  determin-        .  J 
;j         ing  what  are  the  best  interests  of  our  child,  the 
jl         next  great  question  is  how  shall  we  secure  them  ?          ;| 
Thousands  have  decided  as  we  have,  but  alas !  how 
few  have  been  able  to  secure  the  right  means.     A          s' 
religious  education  I  know  to  be  the  only  true  edu 
cation.     All  others  must  fail.     But  what  is  a  reli- 

t 
gious  education  ?     It  is  in  the  wrong  determination          jj 

of  this  question  that  so  many  fail." 
"  Can  you  determine  it,  James  ?" 
"  Not  so  well  as  you  can.    But  do  you  not  agree 
with  me  in  the  conclusion  I  have  stated  ?" 

"Assuredly  I  do.     Religion   is   nothing   more         J 
than  heavenly  order,  and  involves  in  it  the  true  re 
lation  of  the  creature  and  the  Creator.     It  is  not 
the  abstract,  dark,  austere  and  repulsive  something 
that  so  many  make  it ;  a  thing  of  pharisaical  sane- 

I 


, 


14  THE    MOTHER. 


tity  and  unmeaning  observauces.     No  —  no.     Re-         s 
ligion  clothes  herself  in   garments  of  light,  and         5 
wears  upon  her  brow  a  sunny  smile.     All  who 
look  upon  her  as  she  really  is,  must  love  her." 

"  Truly  said,  for  she  is  the  very  embodiment  of         1; 
beauty.     But,  how  few  there  are  who  see  her  and 
know  her." 

"Too  few  indeed." 

"Still,  Anna,  we  are   dealing  but  in  generals.         '^ 
How  are  we  to  educate  our  child  upon  religious 
<;          principles  ?" 

j;  "  First  of  all,  we  should,  as  I  have  already  endea 

voured  to  do,  impress  upon  her  mind  the  idea  of  a 
God,  and  that  he  loves  her,  watches  over  her,  and 
protects  her  from  harm.  This  is  easily  done.  No 
idea  is  so  readily  conveyed  to  a  child's  mind  as  \ 
that  of  the  existence  of  God  as  a  good  Being.  — 
When  I  talk  to  Marien,  young  as  she  is,  about 
God  and  the  angels  who  live  in  Heaven,  she  will 
look  me  steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  listen  with  the 
most  fixed  attention.  She  cannot  yet  speak  her 
<  thoughts,  but  I  know  that  she  more  than  half  com- 
!;  prehends  me,  and  that  in  the  tender  and  most  im 
pressible  substances  of  her  mind,  I  am  fixing  ideas 
that  can  never  be  eradicated.  As  she  grows  older, 
and  her  mind  expands,  I  shall  not  only  teach  her 
to  regard  the  good  of  others,  but  instruct  her  in 


I  •         I 

INTRODUCTION.  15 

the  right  means  of  promoting  it.  The  whole  Law 
and  the  Prophets  hang  upon  the  precept :  '  Thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
thy  neighbour  as  thyself.'  Here  is  the  starting 
point  in  all  religion.  With  this  fundamental  doc- 
§  trine,  must  all  other  doctrines  square.  To  love 

God,  is  to  live  according  to  his  commandments;  s 

and  to  love  our  neighbour  is  to  seek  his  good — his 
hignest  good.  If  we  live  only  for  ourselves,  and 
regard  only  ourselves,  we  live  a  false  and  irreligious 
life,  and  cannot  be  happy.  No  matter  what  doc 
trines  we  profess — no  matter  by  what  name  we  call 
ourselves — if  we  do  not  seek  the  good  of  others  we  |j 


are  irreligious." 

"With  what  truth  may  it  be  said — 'There  is 
none  good — no,  not  one,' "  remarked  Hartley,  as  his 

\        wife  ceased  speaking.     "  How  easy  it  is  to  see  the 

|  truth  of  a  precept,  and  declare  it ;  but  how  hard  a 
thing  is  it  to  live  according  to  the  tenor  of  that 
precept/* 

j;  "  Yes — and  how  easy  it  is  to  talk  about  the 

education  of  our  child,  but  how  almost  impossible 
will  it  be  for  us  to  accomplish  the  important  task,'7 
replied  Anna.  "  Already  do  l  hnd  myself  at  a  losa 
how  to  meet  and  correct  certain  evil  tendencies  J 

•;  thus  eariy  apparent  in  our  dear  little  one.  These 
will  grow  stronger  as  she  grows  older.  I  cannot 


16  7HE    MOTHER. 

remove  them  —  all  1  can  do  will  be  to  prevent  thcii 
attaining  sufficient  strength  to  rule  in  her  mind,  at 
the  same  time  that  I  seek  to  sow  the  seeds  of  op 
posite  good  principles,  that  when  she  attains  the 
age  of  rational  accountability,  and  the  great  strug 
gle  commences,  that  takes  place  with  every  one, 
she  may  have  the  means  of  a  sure  conquest.  If 
we  could  remove  the  evil  tendencies  with  which 
our  children  are  born,  our  duties  would  be  lighter, 

J  for  we  could  then  work  with  more  confidence. 

But  this  we  cannot  do.  Each  one  has  to  do  it  for 
himself,  when  he  comes  to  mature  age  —  or  rather, 
he  has  then  to  fight  against  the  evils  in  himself, 
and  when  from  right  motives  he  does  this,  the 

5  liord  will  remove  them.  All  we  can  do  for  our 

fhild,  is  to  keep,  as  far  as  it  is  in  our  power,  her 
evils  quiescent,  and  fill  her  mind  with  active  prin 
ciples  of  goodness.  These  will  be  weapons  and 
proof  armour  in  the  strife  that  must  take  place, 
sooner  or  later.  Fighting  with  these,  she  muft 


come  off  conquerer  " 


CHAPTER  11. 


\  BEGINNING    RIGHT.  S 


?  s 

THIS  was  the  first  serious  conversation  that  had 
token  place  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  on  the 
subject  of  the  education  of  their  child.  As  their 
thoughts  became  more  and  more  steadily  directed  to 
the  subject,  they  saw  their  duty  clearer  and  clearer 
At  least,  such  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Hartley,  for 
her's  was  the  task  of  making  the  first  impression 

•;  upon  her  child's  mind — the  first  and  most  lasting 
impression.  Upon  the  character  of  the  mother  de- 
pends,  almost  entirely,  the  future  character  ana 

^        position  of  the  child.    No  matter  how  wise  and 

j!  good  the  father  may  be,  his  influence  will  do  but 
little  if  opposed  to  that  of  an  injudicious  mother. 
Take  ten  instances  where  men  have  risen  from 

J  humble  stations  into  eminence,  and  nine  of  these 
at  least  will  be  found  the  result  of  a  mother's  in 
fluence.  Her  love  is  a  different  one;  it  is  more 
concentrated — and  the  more  we  love  an  object,  the 
more  accurate  becomes  our  perception  of  the  means 
of  benefiting  that  object.  The  father  is,  usually, 

!  2*  17 


18  THE    Mo  111  EH.  )' 

all  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  a  business  or  profes 
sion  by  which  to  secure  the  temporal  good  of  hia 
family,  and  has  little  time,  and  too  often  less  incli 
nation  to  devote  himself  to  his  children.     When 
he  retires  into  his  family,  his  mind  seeks  rest  from 
the  over  excitements  of  the  day,  and  he  is  unpre-         < 
pared  to  give  to  his  children  judicious  instruction, 
or  to  administer  wise  correction.    He  cannot  adopt         !» 
a  system,  and  regularly  carry  it  out,  because  he  is 
with  them  only  for  a  short  time  each  day,  and  can-         > 

j  not  know  their  characters  thoroughly,  nor  the 
means  that  best  re-act  upon  and  keep  their  evils 

I  quiescent.  Upon  the  mother  devolves,  therefore, 
of  necessity,  the  high  and  important  duty  of  Enould- 

\  ing  the  characters  of  her  children — of  impressing 
them  for  good  or  evil — of  giving  them  true  strength 
for  their  trials  in  after  life.  ^ 

Sensibly  did  Mrs.  Hartley  feel  this.     The  path          < 
of  duty  lay  clearly  defined  before  her,  and  she 
shrunk  not  from  walking  therein.     Love  for  her 

j  child,  and  a  high  religious  principle,  were  her 
prompters — that  religious  principle  was  a  reverence 
for  God,  and  a  purified  love  of  the  neighbor.  It 
was  a  religion  that  showed  itself  less  in  external 
acts  of  piety  (though  these  were  never  omitted) 
than  in  an  orderly  and  blameless  life — an  upright 
walk  and  a  chaste  conversation.  Her  charity  con-  < 


\  BEGINNING    RIGHT.  19  \ 

/listed  in  the  faithful  performance  of  all  known  du-  j 

ties — the  filling  up  of  her  measure  of  usefulness  ia 
the  sphere  where  Providence  had  placed  her. 

Her  first  efforts  with  her  child,  as  reason  began  to 
dawn,  were  the  best  a  mother  can  use.  She  sought  to  \ 

;j         impress  upon  the  mind  of  her  little  Marien  one  idea.  J 

Among  the  first  words  she  taught  her  to  say,  were,  s 

"  Good  Man  in  Heaven."  And  she  always  uttered 
these  words  with  a  quiet,  thoughtful  face,  and  point 
ed  upwards.  Soon,  the  answer  to  "  Who  loves  little 
Marien?"  would  be  "Papa."  "Who  else?"  "Mam 
ma."  "Who  else?"  "  Good  Man  in  Heaven." 

At  every  step  she  endeavored  to  fix  more  deep-          J 

J         ly  this  impression.     The  lisped  prayer  on  retiring 

>         to  bed  was  never  omitted. 

The  next  effort  she  made  was  to  counteract  the 
selfish  tendency  of  the  child.  She  began  with 
teaching  her  that  she'  must  love  God — the  second 
step  was  to  cause  her  to  regard  the  good  of  others. 

}  If  her  husband,  from  the  very  nature  of  his  occu 

pation,  could  not  aid  her  much  in  the  practical  ap 
plication  of  right  means,  he  was  ever  ready  to  con-          !; 
fer  with  her,  and  to  aid  her  in  discovering  these          ^ 
means.     They  thought  much,  and  conversed  much 

<;          together  upon  the  subject. 

"  The  hardest  thing  I  have  to  do,  is  to  cause 
Marien  to  obey  me,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  as  they  sat 


C--. 


20  THE    MOTHER. 

conversing  about  their  child,  one  evening  after  she         I 
had  been  put  to  bed. 

"No  doubt  of  it,'-  replied  her  husband,    *And 

5  yet  obedience  is,  of  all  things,  most  necessary.  In 
the  young  mind  must  be  formed  vessels  into  which 

;>          principles  of  action  that  are  to  go  vern  in  manhood, 

can  flow.     Obedience  to  parents  forms  in  the  mind         <; 

«j  vessels  that  become  recipients  of  obedience  to  civil 
laws,  without  which  all  social  order  would  be  de 
stroyed  ; — and,  by  an  easy  process,  obedience  to  law 
changes  as  the  mind  rises  into  higher  and  better 
states,  into  obedience  to  divine  laws.  Obedience  to 

{  these  laws  involves  all  the  rest.  A  good  Christian  is 
of  necessity  a  good  citizen.  He  does  not  obey  the 
laws  as  penal  enactments,  but  because  they  are 

j;  founded  upon  a  just  regard  to  the  good  of  the 
whole.  From  this  view  of  the  subject  may  be  seen 
the  importance  of  securing  the  implicit  obedience  of 
our  children.  We  cannot  hope  to  make  this  so  per 
feet  that  they  will  always  regard  our  injunctions 
when  absent;  but  the  consciousness  that  every  act 
of  disobedience,  if  known,  will  meet  with  some  cor 
rection,  cannot  fail  to  have  a  restraining  effect,  and 
will  cause  civil  laws  to  be  obeyed  until  the  mind 
is  so  far  elevated  as  to  observe  them  from  a  regard  j; 
to  their  sacredness  as  means  of  securing  the  go 
of  the  wholo." 

j; 


BEGINNING    RIGHT.  31 

"  This  view  of  the  subject,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hart- 

J          ley,  "  causes  me  to  feel,  more  than  I  have  yet  felt, 

the  necessity  of  obedience  in  children.     I  did  not  j 

see  its  important  bearing  upon  social  order  before, 
nor  how  it  was  the  only  means  of  leading  our  chil 
dren  to  what  is  so  much  desired,  obedience  to  di 
vine  laws,  when  they  become  responsible  beings.'' 
The  three  great  things  to  attain,  as  seeming  of 
most  importance  to  Mrs.  Hartley,  in  the  education 
of  her  child,  were  to  impress  fervently  and  truly 

|  upon  her  mind  a  just  idea  of  God  *,  to  give  her  an 
unselfish  regard  for  her  neighbor,  and  to  insure 
perfect  obedience.  To  do  all  this  was  a  great  j 

work,  and  hard,  almost  impossible  she  often  felt,  [> 
to  accomplish.  But  she  strove  unweariedly  after 
the  attainment  of  her  end, — too  unweariedly,  I  had 
almost  said — for  she  interfered  with  the  freedom 
of  her  child — checked  too  often  its  innocent  out 
bursts  of  exuberant  feeling — saw  too  much,  and  let 
be  seen  too  fully  by  her  child  the  bonds  with 
which  she  sought  to  hold  her.  The  effect  was, 
consequently,  bad,  for  the  rebound  of  her  young 
spirits,  when  away  from  her  mother,  were  too 
strong.  Instead  of  being  happiest  with  her  mother, 

£  she  was  happiest  when  she  could  escape  from  her 
presence. 

j  Mrs.  Hartley  saw  all  this,  and  it  grieved  hei 


t2  THE    MOTHER. 


deeply.  But  the  cause  she  did  not  clearly  perceivo. 
Before,  however,  the  evils  of  an  over-rigid  system 
had  progressed  too  far,  the  birth  of  a  second  child 
divided  her  care  and  affection,  and  gave  to  Marien  a 
real  something  that  she  could  love  understandingly. 


\ 

CHAPTER  HI. 

r| 

MEANS     AND     ENDS. 

}  As  month  after  month  passed  on,  and  Clarence, 

the  latest  born  of  Mrs.  Hartley,  began  to  exhibit  some 

<;  signs  of  his  real  disposition,  the  parents  perceived 
that  it  was  very  different  from  Marien's.  The  first 
born  was  quiet,  and  easily  controlled ;  but  the  boy 

j  was  full  of  life,  and  showed  very  early  a  resolute 
will,  and  passionate  temper.  Before  he  had  com 
pleted  a  year,  he  had  caused  his  mother  many  an 

j;          anxious  hour,  and  drawn  from  her  eyes  many  a         j 

\  tear.  From  his  sister  he  was  disposed  to  take 

every  thing,  and  if  his  exacting  spirit  were  not  im-  \ 

\  mediately  gratified  in  its  desires,  he  would  scream 

violently,  and  sometimes  throw  himself  passionate 
ly  upon  the  floor.  In  the  first  year  of  her  bro 
ther's  life,  Marien  had  changed  a  good  deal.— 

•  s 

s 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  23 

Young  as  she  was,  her  mother  endeavored  to  in 
terest  her  in  his   favor — to  lend   him  her  play 

<  things  when  awake,  and  to  rock  his  cradle  when 
he  was  asleep,  and  do  many  little  things  for  him 

j  within  her  ability  to  accomplish.  To  the  exacting, 
imperious  temper  of  the  child,  Marien  was  much 

j         inclined  to  yield.    To  have  permitted  her  to  do  so, 

$  would  have  been  the  easiest  course  for  Mrs.  Hart 
ley  to  pursue.  But  this  she  saw  would  be  to  in 
jure  both  the  children.  Were  Marien  to  give  up 
every  thing  to  Clarence,  it  would  be  impossible  for 
the  mother  to  impress  upon  his  mind  the  idea  that 
others  had  rights  as  well  as  himself — rights  that  he 
must  not  violate.  It  took  some  weeks  after  Mrs*. 

$         Hartley  began  to  teach  her  child  this  important 

<j  lesson  before  she  seemed  to  make  any  impression. 
After  that,  the  simple  declaration — "  This  belongs 
to  Marien,"  caused  Clarence  to  yield  at  once. 

J  The  achievement  of  so  much  gave  the  mother  great 
encouragement.  It  was  fruit  to  her  labour,  and 

>  the  in-gathering  even  of  so  small  a  harvest  was 
delightful. 

As  the  boy  added  month  after  month  and  year 
after  year  to  his  age,  his  strengthening  peculiarities 

;  of  disposition  became  sources  of  constant  annoy 
ance  to  his  mother.  What  could  be  tolerated  in 
the  child  of  two  and  three  years,  was  not  to  be 

I 


24  THE    MOTHER. 

endured  with  patience  in  the  boy  of  five  and  SHL 
Want  of  order  and  cleanliness  were  among  the 
faults  that  worried  her  almost  as  much  as  hia 
stormy  temper,  selfishness,  and  a  disposition  to 
domineer  over  his  sister,  who  remained  still  too 
much  inclined  to  yield  rather  than  contend  with 
him.  Spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  control  herself, 
these  things  so  disturbed  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Hartley,  I 
that  she  would  at  times  speak  fretfully,  and  even 
passionately  to  the  boy.  Whenever  this  was  the 
case,  she  could  see  that  the  effect  was  bad.  She 
reached  nothing  in  her  child — took  hold  of  no-  J 
thing  in  his  mind  by  which  she  could  turn  him  to 
good.  It  was  a  mere  external  concussion,  that 

$          moved  him  just  so  far,  and  that  against  his  will. 

Unhappy,  for  hours  and  days,  would  the  mother 

$          be  whenever  she  thus  lost  her  self-command ;  and         ;J 
long  and  deep  would  be  her  self-communings,  and 
earnest  her  resolutions  to  conquer  the  evils  in  her-        J 
self  that  were  re-acting  so   injuriously  upon  her 
child. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  mother,"  she  would  some 
times  say  to  her  husband  during  these  seasons  of 
depression.     "  I  lack  patience  and  forbearance,  and 
it  seems,  every  other  virtue  required  for  one  in  my         $ 
position.     That  boy,  Clarence,  tries  me,  at  times, 

I;          beyond  endurance.     And  yet,  when  my  mind  is 


1 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  2S 


calm  and  my  perceptions  clear,  I  can  see  that  he 
;!         has  very  many  good  qualities,  and  that  these  really          J 
overbalance  the  evil.     His  intellect  is  remarkably 
quick,  and  there  is  a  manliness  about  him  but  rarely 
seen  in  children  of  his  age."  Jj 

"  Persevere,  Anna  —  persevere,"  were  usually  her 

husband's  encouraging  words.     "You  are   doing 

well.     If  any  one  can  mould  aright  the  disposition 

I        of  that  wayward  child,  it  is  you.    I  only  wish  that 

I  had  half  your  patience  and  forbearance." 

Time  passed  steadily  on.  Another  and  another 
I  .  babe  saw  the  light,  until  five  bright-eyed  children 
|  filled  their  home  with  music  and  sunshine.  When 
her  care  was  lavished  upon  a  single  child,  the  mo 
ther  had  both  mind  and  heart  full.  Now  her  duties 
were  increased  five  fold,  but  she  did  not  feel  them 
to  be  greater  than  at  first.  It  seemed  to  her,  when 
she  had  but  one  babe,  that  there  was  not  room  in 
her  heart  for  another  —  but  now  she  found  that 
there  was  room  for  all.  —  Each  had  its  appropriate 
place. 

Alike  in  some  general  features,  these  five  chil 
dren  were,  in  particulars,  as  unlike  as  possible. 
Marien,  the  eldest,  was  a  sweet-tempered  girl,  ten 
years  of  age.  Clarence  had  improved  much  under 
the  careful  training  of  his  mother,  though  he  waa 
still  rude,  self-willed,  and  too  little  inclined  to  re 
3 

ij 


gard  properly  the  rights  arid  comforts  of  his  bro 


26  THE    MOTHER. 

gard  properly  the  rights  and  coi 

ij  ther  and  sisters.  Henry,  next  younger  than  Cla 
rence,  was  altogether  opposite  in  character.  Timid. 
bashful  and  retiring,  he  had  little  confidence  in 

£  himself,  and  was  too  much  inclined  to  lean  upon 
others.  Fanny,  a  laughing  little  fairy  thing,  ma 
king  tue  house  musical  with  her  happy  voice,  and 

;j  Lillian,  the  babe,  filled  up  the  number  of  Mrs. 
Hartley's  household  treasures. 

J  Nearly  twelve  years  had  passed  since  their  mar 

riage,  and  yet  neither  James  Hartley  nor  his  wife         *t 
were  very  strongly  marked  by  time.     He  had  a 
more  thoughtful, and  shea  more  earnest  expression 

\  of  countenance.  Their  external  condition  had  im 
proved.  He  had  again  entered  into  business,  though 

s          not  with  the  flattering  promises  that  before  encour~ 

aged  him  to  hope  for  a  speedily  attained  fortune ;         ^ 

^  but  he  was  in  a  surer  way  to  competency  at  least. 
During  this  time,  both  the  father  and  mother  of 
Mrs.  Hartley  died,  and  a  maiden  aunt,  the  sister  of  [j 
Anna's  mother,  had  become  a  member  of  their 
household.  The  puritanical  prejudices,  narrow 
views,  and  constant  interference  of  this  woman  \ 

j          with  Anna's  management  of  her  children,  were  a         \ 
source  of  great  trial.     Aunt  Mary  had  no  patience 
with   the   wayward    Clarence,   while   she   petted 
and  indulged  Henry  to  a  degree  that  was  really  in- 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  27 

jurious  to  a  child  of  his  particular  disposition. 
Remonstrance  was  of  no  avail;  for  Aunt  Mary 
imagined  that  her  age  and  relationship  entitled  hei 

|  to  all  the  control  in  the  family  she  chose  to  as 
sume.  She  could  not  understand  that  Anna,  u  the 
child,"  as  she  usually  spoke  of  her,  had  rights  and 

«!         responsibilities  as  a  parent,  with  which  she  ought 

<  not  to  interfere.  All  this  was  beyond  her  compre 
hension. 

Aunt  Mary  was  a  strict  church-going  member. 
A  regular  Sunday  religionist.  She  seemed  to  re 
gard  every  thing  outside  of  a  church  as  profane. 
There  was  sin  in  a  pink  ribbon,  and  carnal-mind- 
edness  in  a  blue  bonnet.  All  amusements  were 
considered  by  her  as  offences  against  God.  To 
attend  a  ball,  or  dance,  was  to  insure  the  soul's 

;'  perdition.  Aunt  Mary  was  not  one  of  those  who, 
while  they  hold  peculiar  and  strict  notions,  have 
the  good  sense  to  keep  quiet  about  them  where 

$  they  know  their  declaration  not  to  be  agreeable. 
She  deemed  it  her  duty  to  preach  from  the  house 

'/         top,  so  to  speak,  on  all  occasions ;  and  to  declare 

|         to  the  children  that  many  of  the  very  things  taught 

them  by  their  parents  were  wrong.     When  Marien          £ 
and  Clarence  were  first  sent  to   dancing  school, 
Aunt  Mary  preached  upon  the  subject,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  for  nearly  a  month> 


L 


THE    MOTHER.  !; 

£  You  will  ruin  your  children,  Anna>"  she  would  j 
say.  "  Isn't  it  a  shame  to  think  that  a  mother  will  j 
have  no  more  regard  for  her  little  ones."  $ 

"  How  will  dancing  ruin   them,  Aunt  Mary  ?"         | 
Mrs.  Hartley  would  sometimes  ask  in  a  quiet  tone. 
"  I  cannot,  for  my  life,  see  any  evil  in  motions  of          ;j 
the  body  made  to  accord  with  good  music." 
;>  •<  Dancing  is  one  of  Satan's  most  cunning  de-         5 

;•  vices  to  lure  the  soul  to  ruin." 

5  "'  How  is  it,  Aunt  Mary  ?    I  cannot  understand 

5          in  what  the  evil  lies.     Is  there  any  thing  in  music         J| 
|;          opposed   to   the  Ten   Commandments  r     Do   the         J 
Ten  Commandments  forbid  dancing  ?" 

"  You  reason  like  a  little  simpleton,  as  you  are," 
;•  returned  Aunt  Mary,  peevishly.  "  The  Bible  for- 
^  bids  dancing."  $ 

"  I  never  saw  it,  and  I  believe  I  have  read  that 
good  book  very  carefully.     It  does  say,  that  there 
<;          is  a  time  to  dance."  £ 

"  It  is  wicked  to  quote  Scripture,  with  the  inten-        \ 
tion  of  perverting  its  meaning,"  replied  Aunt  Mary, 
warmly. 

"I  know  that.  But  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  have 
done  so.  The  Bible  certainly  says  that  there  is  a 
time  to  dance." 

"Not  hi  the  sense  that  y>u  pretend  to  under* 
•tand  it." 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  29 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  is  wicked  to  dance,  and  the  Bible 
never  teaches  us  to  do  what  is  wicked." 

"Oh!  oh!"  returned  Anna,  laughing — "You 
are  like  a  great  many  other  good  people,  Aunt 
Mary.  You  first  call  a  thing  good  or  evil  to  suit 
some  notion  of  your  own,  and  then  make  the  Bible  ,"> 

prove   it  whether   it  will   or  no.     A   convenient 
method,  I  own,  but  it  doesn't  suit  my  common 
sense  notions.     But  to  be  serious  with  you,  aunt ; 
—we  send  our  children  to  dancing  school  from          <] 
conscientious  motives." 

"  Conscientious  motives!  Humph!"  j| 

"  It  is  true.  We  are  satisfied  that  all  external 
graces  and  accomplishments  are  so  many  aids  tc 
moral  culture.  If  selfish  and  worldly-minded  peo 
ple  pervert  them  to  selfish  and  worldly  purposes, 
that  is  an  evil  for  which  they  alone  are  responsible. 
j  Shall  I,  because  a  glutton  makes  himself  sick  on 
dainty  food,  refuse  to  eat  any  thing  but  the  coarsest 
bread  ?  Or,  because  my  next  door  neighbor  fur 
nishes  her  house  richly  that  her  taste  may  be  ad 
mired,  refuse  to  have  a  carpet  upon  my  floor,  or  a 
mirror  in  my  parlor  ?  It  is  the  end  for  which  a 
thing  is  done  that  makes  it  evil  or  good,  aunt.  All 
good  gifts  are  from  Heaven.  There  are  no  positive 
evils, — all  that  exist  are  perversions  of  good."  ^ 


30  THE    MOTHER. 

j 

«  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  end  sanctifies  th« 
means  ?"  asked  Aunt  Mary,  quite  fiercely.  s 

"  I  do,  if  the  means  are  good  ?" 

*'  What  am  I  to  understand  by  that?  You  seem 
to  be  talking  riddles." 

"  Good  means  never  violate  the  laws  of  either 
God  or  man.  You  may  always  be  sure  that  the 
end  is  bad,  if  the  means  used  in  its  attainment  are 
so.  But  to  come  back  to  the  point  from  which  we 
started.  We  can  see  no  harm  in  music  and  dan 
cing,  abstractly  considered."  J 

"  But  their  effects,  Anna.  Cannot  you  see  their 
injurious  effects  upon  young  people." 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"  They  make  them  vain  and  frivolous,  and  wean 
their  minds  from  better  things." 

"  I   always    find   that   my   children   say   their 
prayers  as  earnestly  in  the  evening  of  the  day  they 
have  taken  their  dancing  lesson,  as  on  any  other*,         ] 
And,  sometimes,  I  think  with  a  more  tender  and 
grateful  spirit." 

"  I  shudder  to  hear  you  talk  so,  Anna.  You  are 
trifling  with  holy  things.  Dancing  and  praying — - 
Ugh !  It  makes  my  very  blood  run  cold !" 

"I  don't  see,  Aunt  Mary,  that  any  good  can 
grow  cut  of  these  discussions,"  remarked  Anna, 
gravely.  "The  responsibility  of  our  children's 


MEANS    AND    E>DS.  31 

5  education  rests  with  James  and  myself.  Our  guide 
is  the  reason  that  God  has  given  us,  illustrated  by 
his  Revelation.  These  teach  us  that  it  is  right  to 
bring  out  into  ultimate  forms  all  that  is  innocent  in  <; 

our  children.    Their  buoyant  spirits  are  ever  caus 
ing  them  to  throw  their  bodies  about  in  every  ima 
ginable  attitude.     Is  it  not  much  better  to  teach  a  ;» 
boy  like  Clarence  to  dance  gracefully  to  good  mu 
sic,  than  to  let  his  excessive  flow  of  animal  spirits 
lead  him  to  turn  summersets,  stand  on  his  head,  or           <; 
contort  his  body  until  it  is  deformed  ? — and  to  let 
the  peevishness  of  an  unhappy  temper  subside  in  a           > 
similar  amusement?     We,  after  much  careful  re-           ;> 
flection,  have  determined  that  is  best." 

"But  all  amusements  are  sinful,  Anna.     How  «; 

can  you  reconcile  that  with  your  duty  to  your 
children." 

"  As  I  have  often  said  before,"  replied  Mrs.  Hart-  ;> 

ley,  u  I  do  not  believe  that  all  amusements   are 
sinful.     My  opinion  is  that  one  person  may  com-  £ 

mit  more  sin  in  going  to  church,  than  another  in 
going  to  a  ball  room." 

"Anna!" 

"  It  is  the  motive  from  which  a  thing  is  done 
that  makes  it  good  or  bad,"  resumed  the  niece. 
"  If  I  go  to  a  ball  with  a  right  motive,  and  that  1  can 
do,  my  act  is  much  better  than  the  act  of  one  who 


32  THS    MOTHER. 

\ 

goes  to  church  to  be  seen  and  admired,  or,  as  too 
many  go,  with  a  pharisaical  spirit." 

"  It's  no  use  to  talk  to  you !"  Aunt  Mary  said, 
pettishly.     "  You  and  James  are  as  set  in  your       .  \ 
ways  as  you  can  be.     I  pity  your  children — that's         \ 
what  I  do.     If  ever  they  come  to  any  thing,  it  will         j 
be  more  from  good  luck  than  any  thing  else.     As 
to  their  ever  caring  about  religion,  I  give  up  all         J 
hopes.     Mark  my  words,  Anna,  the  day  will  come 
when  you  will  repent  of  this  folly.     Young  folks 
think  old  folks  fools ;  but  old  folks  know  young 
folks  to  be  fools.     Remember  that." 

Contentions  like  these  did  not  change  in  the         jl 
slightest  degree  the  system  which  Mr.  and  Mrs,         J 
Hartley  had   adopted.     They  believed   that  their 
I;  children  would  be  more  useful  as  members  of  com- 

'i  •  '] 

',]  mon  society  after  they  arrived  at  mature  age,  if  en 

dowed  with  every  accomplishment  of  mind  and         < 
manners,  than  if  rude  and  uncultivated,  except  ia 
the  higher  and  sterner  qualities  of  the  intellect.         J 
As  to  the  absurd  notion  that  such  accomplishments 
were  inconsistent  with  true  religion,  they  were  well         !j 

$  assured  that,  without  such  accomplishments,  reli-         ;> 

gion  lost  more  than  half  of  its  means  of  acting  fop 
good  hi  common  society. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

''  THE    SECRET    OF    GOVERNING    CHILDREN. 

VERY  soon  after  Mrs.  Hartley  assumed  the  re« 

|        iponsible  position  of  a  mother,  she  became  sensibls          j 
that  she  had  really  more  to  do  in  the  correction  of          j 
what  was  wrong  in  herself,  than  in  her  children 
To  remain  undisturbed  at  their  disobedience,  and 
unimpassioned  when  duty  called  her  to  administer          «; 
correction,  was  next,  it  seemed  to  her,  to  impossi 
ble.     A  calm  admonition  she  always  saw  did  more 

<  good  than  an  energetic  one — and  grief  at  her  child's 
disobedience  was  ever  more  effective  than  anger. 

j;  But  anger  was  too  ready  to  lift  its  distorted  visage, 
and  she  mourned  over  this  tendency  with  a  real 
sorrow,  because  she  saw  that  it  exerted  an  unhappy 
influence,  especially  upon  the  self-willed,  excitable 

(         Clarence. 

"  I  believe  I  have  discovered  a  secret,"  she  re 
marked  to  her  husband,  while  they  sat  conversing          jj. 


one  evening,  about  the  time  that  Clarence  attained 
his  third  year. 
"  What  is  that,  dear?"  he  asked. 

33 


34  THE    MOTHER. 

"  The  secret  of  governing  my  chikVren  easily." 

"  A  great  secret  that.  But  are  you  sure  you  are 
right?" 

"  I  think  I  am.     It  is  to  grovern  myself." 

Mr.  Hartley  smiled. 

"I  believe  it  is  the  only  true  way," returned  his 
wife. 

"  And  so  do  I,  Anna.  But  the  government  of 
ourselves  is  not  so  easy  a  matter." 

u  I  am  well  aware  of  that.  No  one,  it  seems  to 
me,  can  try  harder  than  I  do  to  control  my  feelings 
when  Clarence  does  wrong.  But  I  cannot  do  it 
once  in  ten  times  that  I  make  the  effort.  When  1 
do  succeed,  the  task  of  correction  is  easy  and  ef 
fectual.  A  word,  mildly  but  firmly  uttered,  or  a 
look,  is  all  that  is  required.  The  child  seems  at 
once  subdued.  I  am  sometimes  astonished  at  so 
marked  a  result  from  what  seems  so  small  a 
cause." 

"  That  you  succeed  once  even  in  ten  efforts,  is 
certainly  encouraging." 

"  It  inspires  me  with  the  hope  that  I  shall  yet 
conquer  myself,  through  the  power  sent  me  from 
above.  The  earnest  love  I  feel  for  my  children, 
shall  give  me  resolution  to  persevere." 

The  manner  and  words  of  Mrs.  Hartley  touched 
her  husbtnd. 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  35 

tt  For  their  sakes,  persevere,  dear  Anna !"  he 
•aid  with  emotion. 

;  "I  will,"  was  her  tearful  answer — the  drops  of 

pure  feeling  were  dimming  her  eyes. 

>  u  There  is  still  another  reason  why  both  you 

$  and  I  should  resist  every  evil  tendency  of  our  na- 
tures,"  said  Mr.  Hartley.  "  We  are  well  convinced, 

{         that  our  children  can  have  no  moral  perversions  that 

<|         are  not  inherited  from  their  parents." 

"  It  is,  alas  !  but  too  true. — How  sad  the  reflec 
tion  that  we  entail  a  curse  upon  our  offspring." 
"  Sad  indeed.     But  what  is  our  duty  ?" 
"A   very   plain   one,"  returned   Mrs.    Hartley. 

<  "  To  resist  evil  in  ourselves,  and  put  it  away,  that 
our  future  offspring,  should  God  add  to  the  number 

^  of  our  jewels,  may  inherit  from  us  tendencies  to 
good  instead  of  tendencies  to  evil.  This  is  the  way 
in  which  we  can  care  best  for  our  children.  The 

$         forms  of  all  uncorrected  evils  in  ourselves  must,  by 

!>  the  immutable  law  that  every  thing  produced  bears 
the  likeness  and  has  the  qualities  of  the  producing 
cause,  be  in  our  children ;  and  there  is  enough  and 
more  than  enough  surrounding  every  one  to  excite 

J         his  latent  evils.    Every  wrong  temper,  every  selfish 

s  feeling,  that  we  conquer  in  ourselves,  is  just  so 
much  gain  of  good  for  our  children." 

"  Yes,  to  subdue  our  own  evils  is  the  only  sure 


THE    MOTHER. 

way  to  correct  them  in  our  children.  We  weaken 
them  in  their  transmission,  and  are  IL  better  states 
to  correct  them  when  they  begin  to  appear." 

';  How  very  few  there  are  who  think  on  this  sub- 

^  ject  as  did  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley.     Parents  will 

indulge  in  all  the  evil  tempers  and  dispositions  of 
an  unregenerate  nature — will  cherish  envy  and 
pride,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  manner  of  selfishness, 

s  and  yet  wonder  at  their  existence  in  their  children 
— will  indulge  these  things  in  secret,  and  yet  be 
angry  at  their  children,  who  have  no  motive  for 

5  curbing  their  passions  or  hiding  what  they  think 
or  feel.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  few 

!;          are  successful  in  the  government  of  their  children, 

;  when  it  is  seen  that  they  have  not  learned  to  go 
vern  themselves. 

j  From  this  time  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  felt  a 

new  motive  for  striving  after  the  correction  in  them 
selves  of  all  perverted  moral  forms.  The  result 
was  good.  Mrs.  Hartley  found  herself  growing 
more  patient  and  forbearing.  She  was  able  to 
slant  1,  as  it  were,  above  her  children,  so  as  not  to 
be  affected  by  their  wrong  tempers  and  dispositions 
with  any  thing  but  an  earnest  and  unimpassioned 
desire  to  correct  them.  Her  love  was  guided  by 

<;          right  reason,  instead  of  being  obscured  by  anger 
as  had  often  been  the  case. 





A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  37          <; 

Having  fairly  set  forth  the  principles  of  action 
j          which  governed  Mrs.  Hartley  in  the  management 
X          and  education  of  her  children,  let  us  introduce  her 
£          more  fully  to  the  reader,  that  she  may  be  seen  in          I; 
the  active  effort  to  perform  well  a  mother's  part.          ^ 
J;          The  period  already  named,  twelve  years  from  the 
$         time  of  her  marriage,  will  be  the  best  for   our          < 
^          purpose. 

I  \ 

e  ,' 


CHAPTER  V.  < 

S  'rj 

A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE. 

\  "  There  come  the  children  from  school,"  said         \ 

Aunt  Mary,  looking  from  the  window.     "  Just  see 

?  that  Clarence  !  He'll  have  Henry  in  the  gutter. 
I  never  saw  just  such  another  boy.  Why  can't 
he  come  quietly  along  like  other  children.  There  I 
— now  he  must  stop  to  throw  stones  at  the  pigs. 
That  boy  '11  give  you  the  heart  ache  yet,  Anna."  4 

Mrs.  Hartley  made  no  reply,  but  laid  aside  he? 
work  quietly  and  left  the  room,  to  see  that  their 
dinner  was  ready.  In  a  few  minutes  the  street  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  children  came  bound 
ing  in  full  of  life,  and  noisy  as  they  could  be, 
4 

;!  \ 

j 


38  THE    MOTHER. 

J 

w  Where  is  your  coal,  Clarence  ?"  she  asked,  in  j 

a  pleasant  tone,  looking  her  oldest  boy  in  the  face.  \ 

"  Oh,  I  forgot !"  he  replied  cheerfully,  and  turn 
ing  quickly,  he  ran  down  stairs,  and  lifting  his 
coat  from  where,  in  his  thoughtlessness,  he  had          ^ 
thrown  it  upon  the  floor,  hung  it  up  in  its  proper 
place,  and  then  sprung  up  the  stairs. 

"  Isn't  dinner  ready  yet  ?"  he  said,  with  fretful          j 
impatience,  his  whole  manner  changing  suddenly. 
a  I'm  hungry."  I; 

u  It  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,  Clarence." 

u  I  want  it  now.     I'm  hungry." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Hartley,  in  a  voice  that  showed  no  disturbance  of          5 
mind,  "  who  wanted  the  sun  to  rise  an  hour  before 
its  time  ?" 

"  No,  mother.     Tell  me  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

All  impatience  had  vanished  from  the  boy's  face.        \  < 

"  There  was  a  man  who  had  to  go  upon  a  jour-         \ 
ney.     The  stage  coach  was  to  call  for  him  at  sun-         ;< 
rise.     More  than  an  hour  before  it  was  time  for          <j 
the  sun  to  be  up,  the  man  was  all  ready  to  go,  and 
for  the  whole  of  that  hour  he  walked  the  floor  im-          < 
patiently,  grumbling  at  the  sun  because  he  did  not 
rise.    '  I'm  all  ready,  and  I  want  to  be  going,'  he 
said.    *  It's  time  the  sun  was  up,  long  ago.'    Don't          4 
you  think  he  was  a  very  foolish  man  ?"  $ 

I 


<  A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  89 

J;  j 

Clarence  laughed,  and  said  he  thought  the  man 
was  very  foolish  indeed. 

f  "  Do  you  think  he  was  more  foolish  than  you 

were  just  now  for  grumbling  because  dinner  wasn't 
ready> 

Clarence  laughed  again,  and  said  he  did  noi 
know.  Just  then  Hannah,  the  cook,  brought  in 
the  waiter  with  the  children's  dinner  upon  it.— 
Clarence  sprang  for  a  chair,  and  drew  it  hastily  and 
noisily  to  the  table.  $ 

"  Try  and  see  if  you  can't  do  that  more  orderly, 
my  dear,"  his  mother  said,  in  a  quiet  voice,  look-          j 
$         ing  at  him  as  she  spoke,  with  a  steady  eye. 
'<  The  boy  removed  his  chair,  and  then  replaced  it 

gently. 

"  That  is  much  better,  my  son." 

5  And  tims  she  corrected  his  disorderly  habits, 

quieted  his  impatient  temper,  and  checked  his  rude- 
I         ness,  without  showing  any  disturbance.     This  she 
had  to  do  daily.     At  almost  every  meal  she  found 
it  necessary  to  repress  his  rude  impatience.    It  was         J 
line  upon  line,  and  precept  upon  precept.    But  she 
f          never  tired,  and  rarely  permitted  herself  to  show         <! 
that  she  was   disturbed,  no   matter   how   deeply 
grieved  she  was  at  times  over  the  wild  and  reck 
less  spirit  of  her  boy. 

On  the  nexf  day  she  was  not  very  well.     Her 


J 

40  THE    MOTHER.  \ 

s  > 

head  ached  badly  all  the  morning.     Hearing  the 
children  in  the  passage,  when  they  came  in  from 
school  at  noon,  she  was  rising  from  the  bed  where         i 
she  had  lain  down,  to  attend  to  them,  and  give  them 
their  dinners,  when  Aunt  Mary  said,  ] 

(  "  Don't  get  up,  Anna.     I  will  see  to  the  children.'1         \ 

It  was  rarely  that  Mrs.  Hartley  let  any  one  do         < 

j          for  them  what  she  could  do  herself,  for  no  one  else 

could  manage  the  unhappy  temper  of  Clarence.        \ 
But  so  violent  was  the  pain  in  her  head,  that  she 
let  Aunt  Mary  go,  and  sunk  back  upon  the  pillow 
from  which  she  had  arisen.     A  good  deal  of  noise      £  5 

/          and  confusion  continued  to  reach  her  ears,  from  the 

!»          moment  the  children  came  in.     At  length  a  loud      »  j; 

jj          cry  and  passionate  words  from  Clarence  caused  her        i 

J          to  rise  up  quickly  and  go  over  to  the  dining  room. 

\          All  was  confusion  there,  and  Aunt  Mary  out  of 
humor,  and  scolding  prodigiously.     Clarence  was 

j  standing  up  at  the  table,  looking  rfefiance  at  her, 

on  account  of  some  interference  with  his  strong         j; 
self-will.    The  moment  the  boy  saw  his  mother, 
his  countenance  changed,  and  a  look  of  confusion 

I  took  the  place  of  anger.  ;j 

"  Come  over  to  my  room,  Clarence,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice ;  there  was  sadness  in  its  tones, 
that  made  him  feel  sorry  that  he  had  given  vent  so 


freely  to  his  ill  temper. 


;'  A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  4i 

"What  was  the  matter,  my  son  ?"  Mrs.  Hartley 
asked,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  taking  Clarence 
ft         by  the  hand,  and  looking  steadily  at  him. 
£  "  Aunt  Mary  wouldn't  help  me  when  I  asked 

her." 
J,  "Why  not?" 

"  She  would  help  Henry  first." 
"  No  doubt  she  had  a  reason  for  it.     Do  you 
know  her  reason  ?"  > 

s  u  She  said  he  was  youngest."     Clarence  pouted 

out  his  lips,  and  spoke  in  a  very  disagreeable  tone. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  was  a  very  good  reason  ?"          J 
\  "  I've  as  good  a  right  to  be  helped  first  as  he          <; 

has." 

i;  •*  Let  us  see  if  that  is  so.     You  and  Marien  and          ^ 

5.        Henry  came  in  from  school,  all  hungry  and  anx 
ious  for  your  dinners.     Marien  is  oldest — she,  one 
would  suppose,  from  the  fact  that  she  is  oldest, 
would  be  better  able  to  feel  for  her  brothers,  and         <; 
be  willing  to  see  their  wants  supplied  before  her 
own.     You  are  older  than  Henry,  and  should  feel 
for  him  in  the  same  way.     No  doubt  this  was 
Aunt  Mary's  reason  for  helping  Henry  first     Had 
she  helped  Marien  ?" 
"  No  ma'am." 
"  Did  Marien  n  ^mplain  ?" 
"No  ma'am." 

4" 


42  THE    MOTHER.  < 

\ 

<•  No  one  complained  but  my  unhappy  Clarence          ;> 
Do  you  know  why  you  complained  ?     I  can  tell         JJ 
you,  as  I  have  often  told  you  before.     It  is  be 
cause  you  indulge   in  very  selfish  feelings.     All         \ 
who  do  so,  make  themselves  miserable.    If,  instead 

\          of  wanting  Aunt  Mary  to  help  you  first,  you  had, 

|j  from  a  love  of  your  little  brother,  been  willing  to 
see  him  first  attended  to,  you  would  have  enjoyed 
a  real  pleasure.  If  you  had  said — '  Aunt  Mary, 
help  Harry  first,'  I  am  sure  Henry  would  have  said 
instantly — *  No,  Aunt  Mary,  help  brother  Clarence 

\  first.'  How  pleasant  this  would  have  been;  how 
happy  would  all  of  us  have  felt  at  thus  seeing  two 

f         little  brothers  generously  preferring  one  another." 

There  was  an  unusual  degree  of  tenderness,  even         s 
sadness  in  the  voice  of  his  mother,  that  affected 
Clarence.     But  he  struggled  with  his  feelings.— 
When,  however,  she  resumed,  and  said— 

"  I  have  felt  quite  sick  -all  the  morning.     My          > 
head  has  ached  badly — so  badly  that  I  have  had  to         \ 
lie  down.     I  always  give  you  your  dinners  when 
you  come  home,  and  try  to  make  you  comfortable. 

!;  To-day  I  let  Aunt  Mary  do  it,  because  I  felt  so 
sick.  But  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  get  up,  sick  a§ 
I  was,  and  do  it  myself — then  I  might  have  pre 
vented  this  unhappy  outbreak  of  my  boy's  unruly 

J          temper,  that  has  made  not  only  my  head  ache 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  43 

ten  times  as  badly  as  it  did,  but  my  heart  ache 

also » 

Clarence  burst  into  tears,  and  throwing  his  arms 
around  his  mother's  neck,  wept  bitterly. 
''I  "  I  will  try  and  be  good,  dear  mother !"  he  said. 

s         u  I  do  try  sometimes,  but  it  seems  that  I  can't." 

"  You  must  always  try,  my  dear  son.    Now  dry 
up  your  tears,  and  go  out  and  get  your  dinner. 
Or,  if  you  would  rather  I  would  go  with  you,  1          |> 
will  do  so." 

"  No,  dear  mother !"  replied  the  boy,  affection 
ately — "  You  are  sick.  You  must  not  go.  I  will 
be  good." 

[;  Clarence  kissed  his  mother  again,  and  then  re- 

>         turned  quietly  to  the  dining  room. 

"  Naughty  boy !"  said  Aunt  Mary,  as  he  entered, 
looking  sternly  at  him. 

A  bitter  retort  came  instantly  to  tne  tongue  of 
ij         Clarence,  but  he  checked  himself  with  a  strong 
effort,  and  took  his  place  at  the  table.     Instead  of 
soothing  the  quick  tempered  boy,  Aunt  Mary  chafed  \ 

him  by  her  words  and  manner  during  the  whole 
meal,  and  it  was  only  the  image  of  his  mother's 
tearful  face,  and  the  remeinGrance  that  she  was 
sick,  that  restrained  an  outbreak  of  his  passionate 
ff  temper. 

When  Clarence  left  the  table,  he  returned  "to  his 

|  '  I    •  '      ' 


j 

44  THE    MOTHER. 

mother's  room,  and  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow 
where  her's  was  resting  4 

u  I  love  you,  mother/'  he  said,  affectionately — 
"You  are  good.     But  I  hate  Aunt  Mary." 

"  O  no,  Clarence.     You  must  not  say  that  you 
hate  Aunt  Mary,  for  Aunt  Mary  is  very  kind  to         '? 
^  you.     You  musn't  hate  any  body."  s 

"  She  isn't  kind  to  me,  mother.     She  calls  me  a        < 
;j  bad  boy,  and  says  every  thing  to  make  me  angry        | 

when  I  want  to  be  good." 

"  Think,  my  son,  if  there  is  not  some  reason  for 
£  Aunt  Mary  calling  you  a  bad  boy.     You  know,         ;l 

yourself,  that  you  act  very  naughtily  sometimes,        < 
£          and  provoke  Aunt  Mary  a  great  deal." 

"  But  she  said  I  was  a  naughty  boy,  when  I  '/t 
went  out  just  now ;  and  I  was  sorry  for  what  1  had  [>t 
done,  and  wanted  to  be  good." 

"  Aunt  Mary  didn't  know  that  you  were  sorry, 
I.  am  sure.     When  she  called  you  '  naughty  boy,'         ?. 
what  did  you  say  ?" 

>  "  I  was  going  to  say,  4  you're  a  fool !'  but  I 

didn't,     I  tried  hard  not  to  let  my  tongue  say  the 
bad  words,  though  it  wanted  to." 

"  Why  did  you  try  not  to  say  them  ?" 
«;  "  Because  it  would  have  been  wrong,  and  would 

have   made   you  feel  sorry.     And  I  love   you.'' 
Again   the  repentant  boy  kissed  her.    His  eyes 


j 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  45 

i1 

were  fu'll  of  tears,  and  so  were  the  eyes  of  his 
mother. 

<  While  talking  over  this  incident  with  her  hus- 

!>         band,  Mrs.  Hartley  said, — 

"Were  not  all  these  impressions  so  light,  I 
would  feel  encouraged.  The  boy  has  warm  and 
tender  feelings,  but  I  fear  that  his  passionate  tem- 

j|         per  and  selfishness  will,  like  evil  weeds,  complete- 

j|         ly  check  their  growth." 

"  The  case  is  bad  enough,  Anna,  but  not  so  bad, 
I  hope,  as  you  fear.     These  good  affections  are          s 
never  active  in  vain.     They  impress  the  mind  with 

J  an  indellible  impression.  In  after  years  the  re 
membrance  of  them  will  revive  the  states  they 

^  produced,  and  give  strength  to  good  desires  and 
intentions.  Amid  all  his  irregularities,  and  wan 
derings  from  good,  in  after  life,  jhe  thoughts  of  his  £ 

s         mother  will  restore  the  feelings  he  had  to-day,  and 

draw  him  back  from  evil  with  chords  of  love  that       .    j 

<!         cannot  be  broken.     The  good  now  implanted  will          ?t 

f,         remain,  and,  like  ten  just  men,  save  the  city.     In          / 
most  instances   where   men   abandon   themselves 
finally  to  evil  courses,  it  will  be  found  that  the 
impressions  made  in   childhood  were  not  of  the          j 
right  kind.     That  the  mother's  influence  was  not 
what  it  should  have  been.     For  myself,  I  am  sure 
that  a  different  m  )ther  would  have  made  me  a  dif-          $ 


*j 

46  THE    MOTHER. 

$          ferent  man     When  a  boy,  I  was  too  much  like         < 
Clarence ;  but  the  tenderness  with  which  my  mo- 

;          ther  always  treated  me,  and  the  unimpassioned  but         [; 

\          earnest  manner  in  which  she  reproved  and  cor 
rected  my  faults,  subdued  my  unruly  temper. — 

;  When  I  became  restless  or  impatient,  she  always         \ 

\          had  a  book  to  read  to  me,  or  a  story  to  tell,  or  had         j 
some  device  to  save  me  from  myself.     My  father 
was  neither  harsh  nor  indulgent  towards  me;  1 
cherish  his  memory  with  respect  and  love.     But  I         ^ 
have  different  feelings  when  I  think  of  my  mother. 
I  often  feel,  even  now,  as  if  she  were  near  me — as 

JJ  if  her  cheek  were  laid  to  mine.     My  father  would 

place  his  hand  upon  my  head,  caressingly,  but  my 
mother  would  lay  her  cheek  against  mine.  I  did 

i  not  expect  my  father  to  do  more — I  do  not  know         j 

that  I  would  have  loved  him  had  he  done  more ; 
for  him  it  was  a  natural  expression  of  affection. 
But  no  act  is  too  tender  for  a  mother.  Her  kiss 
upon  my  cheek,  her  warm  embrace,  are  all  felt 
now,  and  the  older  I  grow  the  more  holy  seem  the  ^ 

!;  influences  that  surrounded  me  in  childhood.     To-         f, 

day  I  cut  from  a  newspaper  some  verses  that 
pleased  and  affected  me.  I  have  brought  them 
home.  Let  me  read  them  to  you. 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE  47 

"«I  DREAMED  OF  MY  MOTHER.* 

<!  I  dreamed  of  my  mother,  and  sweet  to  my  soul 

jj  Was  the  brief-given  spell  of  that  vision's  contiol , 

!;  I  thought  she  stood  by  me,  all  cheerful  and  mild, 

J!  As  when  to  her  bosom  I  clung  as  a  child.  ^ 

|!  l  Her  features  were  bright  with  the  smiles  that  she  wore,  jj 

|>  When  heeding  my  idle-tongued  prattle  of  yore ;  s 

<;  And  her  voice  had  that  kindly  and  silvery  strain 

That  from  childhood  had  dwelt  in  the  depths  of  my  brain 

5 
s 


£  *  She  spoke  of  the  days  of  her  girlhood  and  youth— 

$  Of  life  and  its  cares,  and  of  hope  and  its  truth; 

<;  And  she  seemed  as  an  angel  just  winged  from  above, 


To  bring  me  a  message  of  duty  and  love.  J1 

1  She  told  of  her  thoughts  at  the  old  village  school —  £ 

Of  her  walks  with  her  playmates,  when  loos'd  from  it«  <\ 

rule,  J. 

Of  her  rambles  for  berries,  and  when  they  were  o'er,  {> 

Of  the  mirth-making  groups  at  the  white  cottage  door.  1; 

( She  painted  the  garden,  so  sweet  to  the  view,  \ 
Where  the  wren  made  its  nest,  and  the  pet  flowers  grew— 

Of  the  trees  that  she  loved  for  their  scent  and  their  shade,  ^ 

Where  the  robin,  and  wild-bee,  and  humming-bird  play'd.  s 

cAnd  she  spoke  of  the  greenwood  which  bordered  the 

farm, 
Where  her  glad  moments  glided  unmix'd  with  alarm ; 

*  By  Thomas  G.  Spear. 


fr 

\  48  THE    MOTHER. 

Of  the  well  by  the  wicket  whose  waters  were  ftec, 
And  the  lake  with  its  white  margin  travers'd  in  glee. 


'  And  she  pondered,  delighted,  the  joys  to  retrace 
'•  Of  the  family  scenes  of  that  ruralized  place, — 

(' 


Of  its  parties  and  bridals,  its  loves  and  its  spells 


5  Its  heart-clinging  ties  and  its  sadden'd  farewells.  <! 

;j  j 

1  She  pictured  the  meeting-house,  where,  with  the  throng 
r;  She  heard  the  good  pastor  and  sang  the  sweet  song —  \ 

?  Of  the  call  from  the  pulpit — the  feast  at  the  shrine,  ] 

And  the  hallow'd  communings  with  feelings  divine. 

*  '*  And  listen,  my  son,"  she  did  smilingly  say, 
s  "  If  'tis  pleasant  to  sing,  it  is  sweeter  to  pray — 

'•>  If  the  future  is  bright  in  the  day  of  thy  prime, 

That  brightness  may  grow  with  the  fading  of  time. 


£  l  "  Look  up  to  thy  Maker,  my  son,  and  rejoice  !" 

;>  Was  the  last  gentle  whisper  that  came  from  her  voice, 

I;  While  its  soft  soothirrg  tones  on  my  dreaming  ear  fell, 

As  she  glided  away  with  a  smiling  farewell. 

s  '  There  are  dreams  of  the  heavens,  and  dieams  ot  the 

earth, 
^  And  dreams  of  disease  that  to  phantoms  give  birth, 

But  the  hearer  o?  angels,  awake  or  asleep, 

Has  a  vision  of  love  to  remember  and  keep. 

<j  c  I  awoke  from  the  spell  of  that  vision  of  night, 

jj  And  inly  communed  with  a  quiet  delight. 

And  the  past,  and  the  present,  and  future  surveyed, 

In  the  darkness  presented  by  fancy,  array'd. 

! 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  49 

!  I  thought  oi'  the  scenes  when  that  mother  was  n'gh, 

;  In  a  soil  sunny  land,  and  beneath  a  mild  sky, 

When  at  matins  we  walked  to  the  health-giving  spring, 
r  With  the  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  birds  on  the  wing. 

*  Of  the  draughts  at  the  fount  as  the  white  sun  arose, 
And  the  views  from  the  bluffs  where  the  broad  rive- . 

flows —  \ 

Of  the  sound  from  the  shore  of  the  fisherman's  train, 
And  the  sight  of  the  ship  as  it  sailed  to  the  main. 

(  Of  the  wild-flowers  pluck'd  from  the  glen  and  the  field, 
£  And  the  beauties  the  meadows  and  gardens  revealed—  jj 

s  Of  all  that  she  paused  to  explain  or  explore, 

'Till  I  learned,  in  my  wonder,  to  think  and  adore. 

'^  *  And  of  joys  that  attended  the  fireside  scene, 

When  woodlands  and  meadows  no  longer  were  green—  ; 

Of  the  sports,  and  the  tales,  and  the  holiday  glee,  £ 

5  That  ever  were  rife  at  the  fond  mother's  knee. 

»          '  Of  the  duties  of  home,  and  the  studies  of  school, 
L  With  the  many  delights  that  divided  their  rule,  ( 

'Till  the  sunshine  of  boyhood  had  ended,  and  brought  £ 

!>  The  cares  and  the  shadows  of  manhood  and  thought 

4  And  I  sighed  for  the  scenes  that  had  faded  away, 
For  the  forms  that  had  fallen  from  age  to  decay — 
For  the  friends  who  had  vanished,  while  looking  beforSj 
To  paths  that  their  feet  were  forbid  to  explore. 

1  And  glancing  beyond,  through  the  vista  of  time, 
\  With  a  soul  full  of  hcpe,  and  with  life  in  its  prime, 

5 

j 


60  THE    MOTHER.  j[ 

Though  flowers  by  memory  cherished  had  died  "f 

Life's  garden  was  still  with  some  blossoms  supplied, 

'And  oft  as  that  dream  to  my  spirit  comes  back,  \ 

A  ne-wness  of  thought  re-illumines  my  track, — '  "  ?, 

*  *  *  *  *  *  s 

"  Pure  and  tender.  The  mother  who  cal  ed 
forth  that  heart-warm  tribute  was,  doubtless,  a  good 
mother,"  said  Anna.  > 

"  You  remember  Cowper's  lines,  written  on  re-  jj 
ceiving  his  mother's  picture  ?"  remarked  her  hus-  J 
band,  after  musing  for  a  short  time. 

"  O,  yes.  Very  well.  They  have  often  affected 
me  to  tears. 

'  O  that  those  lips  had  language  1     Life  has  passed 
But  roughly  with  me  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ;  ^ 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say  '•  e 

1  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away.'  n  £ 

t» 

"  To  him,  how  great  was  the  loss  he  sustained 
in  the  death  of  his  mother.  Had  she  lived,  the 
deep  melancholy  that  seized  him  in  after  life  might 
never  have  occurred.  With  what  simple  eloquence 
ne  describes  his  loss."  And  Mr.  Hartley  repeated 
a  passage  of  the  poem. 


!  \ 

\  A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE.  51 

i  c    My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 

^                Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son,  ) 

<;  Wretched,  e'en  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
5  Perhaps  thou  gavest  rne,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss : 
,|  Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss I 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  toll  on  thy  burial  day, 
(,'  I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
£  A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu !  f> 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown.  t 

f  May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore,  t 

^  Thy  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  !  ^ 

Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  conce*n, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
<|  What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed, 

;!  And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived  ^ 

{•  By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

£  Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
t;  'Till  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

j,  I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

J>  But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot.' "  £ 

Mrs.  Hartley  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hus 
band's  shoulder,  unable  to  restrain  the  tears  that 
were  springing  to  her  eye. 

"  If  Heaven  only  spares  me  to  my  children)  it  is 
all  I  ask,"  she  murmured.  "  I  will  be  patient  with 


I 


52  THE    MOTHER. 

and  forbearing  towards  them.  I  will  discharge  my 
duties  with  unwearied  diligence.  Who  can  fill  a 
mother's  place  ?  Alas !  no  one.  If  any  voice  had 
been  as  full  of  love  for  him  when  a  child,  if  any 
hand  had  ministered  to  him  as  tenderly,  this  touch 
ing  remembrance  of  his  mother  would  never  have 
been  recorded  by  Cowper.  < 

"  '  Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made,  > 

That  thou  might'st  find  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  £ 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestow'd  s 

By  thy  own  hand,  'till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed.  {> 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all,  £ 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall,'  r\ 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks  \> 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes.  \\ 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours  ^ 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers,  jj 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while,  :| 

Would'st  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile)  \ 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear,  I 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,-would  I  wish  them  here! 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight  |> 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might — 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  love*.,  and  thou  so  much, 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUEIVCE.  53          J 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 

Th»  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again.'  ; 


"  Ah,  who  could  be  unkind  to  a  motherless  one  ?" 
"  The  lot  of  an  orphan  child  is  not  always  as 
§ad  a  one  as  must  have  been  that  of  young  Cow-          $ 
per,"  said  Mr.  Hartley,  "  for  it  is  but  rarely  that  a 
/         child  possesses  the  delicate  or  rather  morbid  sensi 
bility  that  characterized  him."  j 
jj             "  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  any  child  of 


J;  mine  would  remember  me  with  less  tenderness," 
replied  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  Even  though  it  embitter  his  whole  life."  $ 

"No — no.  It  was  the  mother's  selfishness,  not  J 
the  mother's  love  that  spoke,"  she  instantly  re-  J! 
turned. 

^  "  To  recur  to  what  we  were  first  talking  about," 

\  said  Mr.  Hartley,  after  a  pause.  "  There  cannot 
be  a  doubt,  that  the  whole  life  of  the  child  is 
affected  by  the  mother's  character,  and  the  influ 
ences  she  has  brought  to  bear  upon  him.  I  could 
point  to  many  instances  that  have  come  under  my  j; 

£         own  observation  that  illustrate  this.    The  father  of 

one  of  my  schoolmates  was  a  man  of  a  highly  cul-  J 

tivated  mind,  and  polished  manners;  his  mother 
was  the  reverse.     The  son  is  like  the  mother.    As 

;         t  man,  he  did  not  rise  in  society  at  all,  and  is  now 

i    "  ! 


64  THE    MOTHER.  \ 

the  keeper  of  a  billiard  saloon.     In  another  in-         < 
stance,  the  father  was  a  low  minded  man,  and  in-         \ 
clined  to  dissipation.     Nearly  the  whole   burden 
of  the  support  of  the  family  fell  upon  the  mother ;         ;; 
but  her  children  always  came  to  school  neat  and 
clean.     Their  behavior  was  good,  and  they  studied 
with  diligence.     Only  one  of  four  sons  turned  out 
badly.     Three  of  them  are  now  merchants  in  good 
business,  and  the   mother's   declining   years   are 
blessed  by  their  kindest  attentions.    You  see,  then,         «! 
Anna,  how  much  you  have  to  encourage  you." 

"  If  there  was  nothing  to  encourage  me,  love         j 
and  duty  would  make"  me  persevere."  i 

"  But  there  is  much.     Cast  thy  bread  upon  the 
waters,  and  it  shall  be  found  after  many  days." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE     BIRTH-DAY     PA/tTY. 

"Next   Saturday   is   Marien's    birth-day,   Aunt        -| 
Mary,"  said   Mrs.  Hartley.      "She  will   be  just 
eleven  years  old,  and  she  must  have  a  party." 

"She  mustn't   have   any  such   thing,  Anna.—         jj 
What  nonsense '" 


THE    BIRTH-DAY   PARTY.  55 

*  Why  do  you  call  it  nonsense  ?" 

"It  will  only  be  putting  silly  notions  into  her  head 
*         Fou  had  a  great  deal  better  take  the  money  it  would 
cost  and  give  it  for  some  charitable  purpose," 

"  Take  care,  Aunt  Mary,  or  I  shall  retort  upon 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  smiling. 

u  You  can  retort  as  much  as  you  please.  I'll 
warrant  you  can  find  no  fooleries  like  giving  par 
ties  to  little  misses,  when  they  had  better  be  in  their 
beds,  to  charge  upon  me." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  that  giving  of  the  money 
for  charitable  purposes,  is  what  I  should  like  to  say 
a  word  about.  Last  week  you  bought  a  new  satin 
coat,  and  gave  three  dollars  a  yard  for  the  satin. 
Why  didn't  you  buy  one  of  good  warm  merino, 
or  even  silk,  and  give  the  balance  to  some  charity  ?  j; 
Answer  me  that,  Aunt  Mary !" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  catechised  by  you,  Miss 
Pert — so  just  hold  your  tongue,"  was  Aunt  Mary's 
reply,  made  half  in  anger  and  half  in  playfulness. 

"  Very  well.     So  the  matter  of  the  charity  is  all 
settled — and  now  what  have  you  to  say  against         J 
the  party  to  Marien,  considered  upon  its  abstract 
merits  ?" 

"A  great  deal.  It  will  be  filling  the  child's 
nead  with  vain  and  wicked  thoughts — thoughts  of 
mere  worldly  show  and  pleasure.  No  doubt  you 


66  THE    MOTHER.  J 

will  dress  her  and  the  rest  of  them  up  Like  puppets 
to  make  them  as  proud  and  vain  as  Lucifer  himself 
Other  people  will  send  their  children  here  tricked 
out  and  furbelowed  just  like   them.     And   then, 
what  a  nice  little  Vanity  Fair  you  will  have.     It  is         j 
a  downright  sin  and  shame,  Anna,  for  you  to  think         ;i 
of  such  a  thing.     It  isn't  only  your  children  that         s 
are  injured,  but  you  tempt  other  people  to  injure 
theirs." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  neither  my  children  nor  the 
children  of  my  friends  may  ever  be  subjected  to         ;> 
worse  influences  than  they  will  be  under  at  Ma-         ;j 
rien's  party,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  with  some  warmth. 

Just  then  Clarence  came  bounding  into  the  room, 
singing  so  loud  as  to  drown  the  voice  of  Aunt         <; 
Mary,  who  had  commenced  a  reply. 

"  Do  hush,  you  noisy  fellow !"  she  said,  fret-         ;> 
fully — "  You  are  enough  to  set  any  one  crazy !"  ;j 

The  boy  did  not  seem  to  regard  the  words  of         J 
his  aunt  any  more  than   he   would   the  passing 
wind.     But  when  his  mother  said,  softly,  "Cla- 
J          rence !"  and  looking  him  in  the  face,  he  was  in 
stantly  quiet.  \ 
'\              Aunt  Mary  noticed  the  effect  of  the  mother's  low- 
voiced  word  in  contrast  with  her  own  peevish  com-         ; 
plaint,  and  it  annoyed  her  so  much  that  she  would 
not  trust  herself  to  utter  what  she  was  about  saying. 


^-\^*^\^»_r-^-_ 


<>  THE    BIRTH-DAT    PARTT.  57 

*  Next  Saturday  is  Marien's  birth-day,"  said  the 
mother,  as  Clarence  came  up  to  her  side  and  leaned          J 
against  her. 

"  Is  it  ?"  and  the  boy  looked  intently  in  his  mo 
ther's  face. 

"Yes.     She  will  be  just  eleven  years  old.     And 
she  must  have  a  party."  s 

"  O,  yes !"  said  Clarence  in  a  quick,  animated          <! 
!»         voice,  clapping  his  hands  together.     Marien  is  a 
J        good  girl,  and  she  shall  have  a  party." 
;',  "  You  love  Marien,  don't  you,  Clarence  ?" 

«  Yes,  mother." 
"  Why  do  you  love  her  ?" 
"Because  she  is  so  good.     Every  body  loves 
her." 

"  Because  she  is  good  ?" 
"Yes." 

j  "Wouldn't  you  like  every  body  to  love  you?" 

"  Yes,  mother.    But  I  can't  be  good  like  Marien." 
"  Why  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  can't." 
"  What  will  you  do  at  Marien's  party  ?" 
u  I  wili  dance  with  all  the  little  girls,  and  be  as 
kind  and  good  to  them  as  I  can." 
"  Who  shall  be  invited  ?» 
tt  All  the  children  we  know,  except  Tom  Peters 
and  Sarah  Jones."  i 


J 


58  THE    MOTHER. 

A  frown  gathered  upon  the  boy's  face  as  he  afc« 
terc-d  these  names. 

«  Why  not  invite  them,  Clarence  ?" 

"  Because  I  don't  like  them." 

"  Why  don't  you  like  them  ?" 

"  Tom  threw  stones  at  me  the  other  day,  and 
Sarah  called  me  a  rude  ugly  boy." 

"  Why  did  Tom  throw  stones  at  you  ?" 

Clarence  was  silent. 

"  Perhaps  you  did  something  to  him." 
£  "  I  only  laughed  at  him  because  he  fell  down." 

u  Did  he  ever  throw  stones  at  you  before  ?"  j 

"No." 

"  You  were  always  good  friends." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  were  first  in  the  wrong.     You  pro 
voked  him  to  throw  stones  at  you." 
<  "  I  only  laughed  at  him,  and  I  couldn't  hdp  it 

He  fell  in  the  mud,  and  soiled  his   clothes  all 
over."  \ 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  any  thing  to  laugh  at. 
Suppose  Marien  had  been  in  your  place  ?  What 
do  you  think  she  would  have  done  ?  Would  she 
have  laughed  at  him  ?" 

**  No ;  I  am  sure  she  wouldn't." 

4  What  would  she  have  done  ?" 

"  I  suppose  she  would  have  gone  to  him,  and 


THE    BIRTH-DAY    PARTY.  59 

brushed  all  the  dirt  from  his  clothes,  and  told  him 
that  she  was  very  sorry  he  had  fallen  down." 
"You  said  just  now  that  Marien  was  a  good 


"  And  so  she  is." 

"  And  that  you  loved  her  because  she  was  good." 
"So  I  do." 

!;  "  Was  you  good  when  you  laughed  at  Thomas 

Peters  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  was." 
"  Would  he  throw  stones  at  Marien  ?" 
"  No,  indeed.     Nobody  would  throw  stones  at 
J         her.     Everybody  loves  her."  ^ 

>  "It  is  plain  then,  that  it  was  because  you  were 

not  good  that  Thomas  Peters  threw  stones  at  you. 
I;  He  did  not  throw  stones  at  good  Clarence,  but 
at  bad  Clarence.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Now  don't  you 
think  you  can  forgive  him,  when  you  remember 
how  you  provoked  him.  Suppose  you  had  fallen 


in  the  mud,  and  he  had  laughed  at  ycu,  would  not 
you  have  been  just  as  likely  to  have  thrown  stones 
at  him  ?" 

"  Maybe  1  would." 

"  Suppose  the  good  Lord  would  not  forgive  119 
for  all  the  evil  we  do,  what  do  you  think  would 
become  of  us  ?  And  he  will  not  forgive  us,  unless 
we  forgive  others  their  trespasses  against  us.— 


60  THE    MOTHER.  '<| 

Remember-  that,  my  dear  boy.     You   will   have 
Thomas  invited,  I  am  sure."  ': 

"  Yes,  mother ;  for  1  believe  I  was  wrong,"  the  •; 
boy  replied  in  a  softened  tone.  "  And  we  will  in-  J; 
vite  Sarah  Jones  too.  I  don't  believe  she  would  \ 
have  called  me  what  she  did,  if  I  had  not  run  ;. 
against  her  little  brother  and  pushed  him  down.  \ 
She  loves  Marien,  and  I  know  would  be  very  sorry  J 
if  she  couldn't  come  to  her  party."  <; 

"  That  is  right,  my  boy.  To  forgive  is  sweet.  ;'; 
You  feel  happier  now." 

* I  don't  hate  Tom  Peters  like  I  did." 

"  You  didn't  hate  him  of  yourself,  my  son.    But 
you  allowed  wicked   spirits  to   come  into  your 
heart,  and  you  felt  the  hatred  they  bear  towards         '/ 
every   one.     I   am   glad   that  they  are  cast  out.         |j 
Whenever  we  permit  them  to  come  into  our  hearts, 
they  make  us  very  unhappy.     If  we  suffer  not  the         jj 
evil  spirits  to  come  into  us,  angels  will  be  our 
companions,  and  they  will  make  us  love  every         \ 
one."  \ 

"  They  must  always  be  with  sister  Marien  then ; 
for  she  loves  every  body."  m  J 

"They  will  always  be  with  you,  if  you  will  let  J 
them,  my  son.  Will  you  not  try  ?" 

"  I  do  try,  mother.    But  I  am  so  bad  that  the 
angels  won't  stay  with  me  "  !• 


THE    BIRTH-DAY  PARTY. 


>  "  What  nonsense   to  talk  in  that  way  to  chil 
dren,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  as  Clarence,  hearing  the 
voice  of  his  sister,  glided  away  to  talk  to  her  about 
her  party. 

"  I  believe  all  I  have  said  to  be  true,"  Mrs.  Hart- 
J         ley  returned. 

>  "  True !    How  can  you  talk  so  ?    Wicked  spirits 
and  angels  in  them !     A  mere  fiction  !" 

"  Not  quite  so  much  of  a  fiction  as  you  may 

think.     But  we  will  not  hold  an  argument  on  that 

s         subject,  for  it  would  be  of  no  use.     I  think,  how- 

J         ever,  that  you  will  admit  that,  if  Marien's  party 

effect  no  more  good  than  you  have  just  seen  done/ 

;t  will  be  well  worth  giving." 

>  "  We  are  not  to  do  evil  that  good  may  come." 
And  Aunt  Mary  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  looked  as 

J         grave  as  a  deacon. 

Mrs.  Hartley  smiled,  but  made  no  further  ob 
servation. 


All  was  merriment  and  glad  anticipation,  when 
it  became  known  among  the  children  that  Marien 
was  to  have  a  birth-day  party.     Preparations  for  it          \ 
were  set  on  foot  immediately,  and  invitations  in          \ 
due  form  made  out,  and  sent  around  to  all  of  her 
little    friends.      When    the    evening   came,    some 
twenty  or  thirty  bright  young  faces  were  seen  in 
the  parlors  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,     Among  the 
6 


I  I 

<;  62  THE    MOTHER.  ,t 

number  were  Thomas  Peters  and  Sarah  Jones,  and 
it  was  a  pure  gratification  to  Mrs.  Hartley  to  see          < 
Clarence  take  the  former  by  the  hand  with  manly 
frankness,  and  speak  kindly  to  the  latter,  when  they 
came  in.    His  eye  caught  the  expression  of  her  face 
at  the  time.   It  warmed  his  heart, — nay,  impressed  it         f. 
inefiaceably.     He  remembered  it  even  in  manhood, 
with  pleasure.  ^ 

The  evening  was  a  merry  one  for  all.     Even         <{ 
Aunt  Mary  forgot,  more  than  half  of  her  time,  the         J; 
little  objection  she  had  to  "  profane  music,"  and          / 
dancing.     Such  romping   and  wild,  happy  merri-         <! 
\          ment  as  was  there,  is  not  often  seen.    Mrs.  Hartley 
«j          was  among  them  as  if  but  a  child  herself,  and 
seemed    to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  the  gayest  little 
urchin  of  the  whole  company.     But,  while  she  ap 
peared  to  enter  into  the  sports  of  the  children  as 
if  one  of  them,  she  guided  all  their  movements,  and 
maintained  a  beautiful  order  throughout  all.     The 
ardent  temperaments  of  the  older  children  were         \ 
restrained  by  modes  not  seen  nor  felt  by  them, 
while  the  younger  ones  she  interested  in  various 
ways,  that  kept  them  together,  and  protected  from 
the  thoughtless  rudeness  of  their  elders.     Not  a 
string  jarred  in  harsh  discord  during  the  whole         j! 
evening.     When  the  hour  came  for  separation,  a 
i          hundred  kind  wishes  were  uttered  for  Marien,  and 


_ 


THE    BIRTH-DAT    PARTY.  63  \ 

hey  all  parted  happier  and  better  than  when  they 
came. 

"  I  don't  know  how  they  can  be  better,"  said 
Aunt  Mary,  to  whom  Mrs.  Hartley  made  a  remark 
on  the  next  day,  similar  to  what  we  have  just 
uttered. 

"It  is  because  they  love  one  another  more,'; 
$  Mrs.  Hartley  replied,  in  her  usual  quiet  way. 

It  is  good  thus  to  bring  children  together  often, 
It  creates  and  cherishes  social  feelings,  and  causes 
them  to  regard  one  another  less  selfishly  than  all 
are  inclined  to  do.  The  spirits  of  children  are 
active,  and  will  flow  out  in  spite  of  all  that  may 
unwisely  be  done  to  restrain  them.  It  is  the  duty 
of  parents  to  provide  good  forms  into  which  these 
can  flow,  and  find  their  delight.  Can  any  thing  be 
more  suitable  than  social  recreations,  in  which 
many  can  join  together  in  innocent  mirth  ?  We 
hink  not.  And  so  thought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley, 
t  was  for  this  reason  that  the  birth-day  of  every 
ehild  was  celebrated  by  some  kind  of  festivities 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CORRECTING     A     FAULT 

MRS.  Hartley  noticed  with   pleasure,  that   for 
days  after  the  party,  the  children  were  happier, 
and  more  easily  interested  than  before.     This  she         j 
had  always  observed  on  similar  occasions.     In  a 
little  while,  however,  things  were  going  on  pretty 

much   in   their  usual  course,  and  she  was  called         \ 

7  ^  ij 

upon  to  exercise  all  her  tact  and  judgment  in  draw 
ing  the  lines  between  them,  so  as  to  protect  each 
one  in  his  or  her  rights  and  privileges.     All  dim*-         < 
culties  were  submitted  to  her  husband,  and  the 
best  means  to  overcome  them  discussed  between         \ 
lern.  < 

"  There  are  two  faults  in  Clarence  and  Henry ,'' 
the  said  to  Mr.  Hartley  about  this  period,  "  that  1         J 
in  at  a  loss  how  to  correct.     They  are  bad  faults, 
.nd  will  affect  their  characters  through  life,  if  not         «; 
judiciously  corrected  now.     Clarence  looks  with          I; 
an  envious  eye  upon  every  thing  that  Henry  has. 


and  manages,  sooner  or  later,  to  get  possession  of 
it  by  his  brother's  consent.     Henry  soou  tires  of 


64 


CORRECTING  A  FAULT.  6C 

what  he  has,  and  is  easily  induced  to  part  with  it 
to  Clarence  for  some  trifling  consideration.     It  is 
not  long,  however,  before  he  wants  it  back  again, 
and  then  trouble  ensues.    Sometimes  I  think  I  will 
make  a  law  that  neither  Clarence  nor  his  brother 
£         shall  part  with  any  thing  that  has  been  given  t 
him.     But  I  am  afraid  of  the  effect  of  this.    It  will 
<;         foster  a  selfish  spirit.    It  will  allow  of  no  generous 
'<;         self-sacrifice  for  the  good  of  others." 

"  I  think  with  you,  that  the  effect  would  not  be 

j-         good.     Still,  it  is  very  important  that  a  certain 

feeling  of  property  in  what  each  one  has  should 

J        be  preserved.     As  far  as  this  can  be  accomplished, 

;'        without  strengthening  the  selfish  tendency  of  our 

J         nature,  it  should  be  done.     It  causes  each  one  not 

only  to  protect  his  own  rights,  but  to  regard  the 

rights  of  his  neighbors." 

"  I  see  all  that  very  clearly.     The  happy  me 
dium  is   what  I  desire  to  attain.     As  things  are 
now,  the  disposition  which  Clarence  has  to  appro- 
j         priate  every  thing  to  himself  is  fostered,  and  Henry 
\         is  losing  that  just  regard  to  his  own  rights  that  he 
ought  to  have.     Now,  what  ought  I  to  do  ?     Can 
you  devise  a  plan  ?" 

"Not   so  well   as  you  can.     But  let  me  see 
Suppose  you  try  this  mode  for  a  while.     Make  a 
law,  that  if  Henry  give  Clarence  any  of  his  play 
6* 


66  THE    MOTHER. 

things,  the  right  to  possess  them  shall  be  as  per-          ? 
fert  as  if  you  or  I  hac  presented  them  to  Clarence 
as  his  own.     The  practical  working  of  this  will, 
in  a  short  time,  make  Henry  reflect  a  little  before 
he  relinquishes  his  property  to  his  brother." 

"That  will  do,  I  think,"   said   Mrs.  Hartley.         ^ 
There  will   be   no   harm   in   trying   it,  at   any          > 
rate." 

On  the  next  day  she  gave  Clarence  a  new  book, 
and  Henry  a  humming-top. 

"Now  let  me  tell  you  something,"  she   said. 
u  This  book  belongs  to  you,  Clarence,  and  this  top 
to  you,  Henry.     I  hope  they  will  please  you  very 
much,  and  that  you  will  take  good  care  of  them.         ;> 
You  can  .lend  them  to  each  other,  if  you  choose ; 
out  I  would  rather  you  would  not  give  them  to 
each  other.     Should  either  of  you  do  so,  the  one         < 
who  gives  his  book  or  his  top  away,  cannot  re 
claim  it  again.     Do  you  understand,  Henry  ?" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am,  I  understand.     I'm  not  going  to         <! 
give  any  body  my  top,  I  know."  } 

"  Very  well,  my  son.  You  can  do  so  if  you 
wish.  But  remember,  after  you  have  once  given 
it  away,  you  cannot  get  it  back  again." 

"Why  can't  I,  mother  ?"  asked  the  little  boy. 

"  Because,  after  you  hav)  given  any  thing  awsy? 
it  is  no  longer  yours." 

1 

i 

s 


CORRECTING   A   FAULT. 


07 


**  I'm  nut  going  to  give  it  away,"  he  saU,  in  a 
positive  voice,  as  he  ran  off  to  spin  his  top  in  the 
play  room. 

J  For  about  an  hour  Clarence  was  very  much  inte 

rested  in  his  book;  while  Henry  continued  to  spin 
his  top  with  undiminished  pleasure.     After   this 
time  the  interest  of  Clarence  began  to  flag,  and  the 
sound  of  Henry's  humming  top  came  more  and 
<;         more  distinctly  to  his  ears  from  the  adjoining  room.          «! 
rj         At  last  he  closed  the  book  and  sought  his  brother. 
u  Let  me  spin  it  once,  won't  you,  Henry  ?"  he 
;j         said.  ; 

"Yes,  I  will,"  returned  the  generous-minded 
boy,  and  instantly  handed  the  top  and  cord  to 
Clarence,  who  wound  it  up,  and  sent  it  humming 
and  skipping  about  the  floor  at  a  grand  rate. 

Henry  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  cord,  but  his 
brother  held  it  back,  saying, 

"  Just  let  me  spin  it  once  more." 
J  "  Well,  you  may  once  more,"  was  replied. 

But  it  was  "  once  more,"  and  "  once  more," 
until  Henry's  tears  restored  to  him  his  toy. 

"  You  are  a  selfish  fellow,"  said  Clarence,  as  he  J» 

J          flung  the  top  and  cord  at  his  brother's  feet. 
s  Clarence  did  not  resume  his  book,  but  stood 

j         looking  at  Henry's  top,  as  he  spun  it,  with  a  covet 
ous  expression  on  h:s  face. 


\ 

68  THE    MOTHER. 

"If  you'll  let  me  spin  your  top,  yon  may  read 
my  book,"  he  at  length  said. 

"  I  will,"  quickly  returned  Henry. 

ij  The  top  and  book  were  exchanged,  and,  for  a 

time,  both  were  well  pleased.  But  the  book  was 
rather  beyond  the  grasp  of  Henry's  mind.  He 
tired  of  it  soon. 

«!  "You  may  have  your  book  now,  Clarence. — 

«;          I'm  done  reading  it.    Give  me  my  top,  won't  you  ?"         j; 

"  I'm  not  done  with  it  yet.  I  let  you  read  my 
;>  book  until  you  were  tired,  and  now  you  must  let 
£  me  spin  your  top  until  I  am  tired."  I; 

Henry  rarely  contended  with  his  brother.     He         J 
^          did  not  like  contention.     Knowing  how  resolute         «{ 
Clarence  was  in  doing  any  thing  that  suited  his         <; 
humor,  he  said  no  more,  but  went  and  sat  down 
s          quietly  upon  a  little  chair,  and  looked  on  wishfully          ,'; 
while  Clarence  spun  his  top.  \ 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  Henry  again  got  pos- 
j          session  of  his  top ;  but  the  zest  with  which  he  had 
<;          at  first  played  with  it  was  gone.     After  throwing  it         \ 
for  a  few  times  he  said —  <j 

J  "Here,  Clarence,  you   may   have   it.     I  don't 

want  it."  j; 

"  May  I  have  it  for  good  ?"  eagerly  asked  Cla 
rence. 

u  Yes,  for  good."  \ 


CORRECTING   A   FAULT.  69 

"  You'll  want  it  back." 
"  No,  I  won't.     You  may  keep  it  for  ever."  •> 

Clarence  took  possession  of  the  top  with  righl 
good  will,  and  went  on  spinning  it  to  his  heart's 
<;          content.     After  dinner  Henry  wanted  it  back  again,          '\ 

>  and  when  his  brother  refused  to  give  it  up,  went 
crying  to   his   mother.     Mrs.  Hartley   called   up 
Clarence,  and  asked   him  why  he   did  not  give 
Henry  his  top. 

"It  isn't   his   top,  mother;    it   is   mine,"   said 

>  Clarence. 

"  Yours !    How  came  it  yours  ?" 
"  Henry  gave  it  to  me." 
"  Did  you  give  it  to  him,  Henry  ?" 
"Yes,  ma'am,  this  morning.     But  it's  my  top, 
and  I  want  it." 

J;  "No,  it  is  not  your  top  any  longer  if  you  have          'c' 

,;         given  it  to  Clarence.     It  is  his,  and  he  must  keep 

it.     Have  you  forgotten  what  I  told  you  when  I 

gave  it   to  you.     If  you  give  away  your  things, 

'1         they  are  no  longer  yours,  and  you  cannot  expect 

to  get  them  back  again.     I  hope,  my  son,  that,          j> 
hereafter,   you   will   be  more   careful   what   you 
;    .       do." 

Henry  cried  bitterly,  but  his  mother  would  not 
compel  Clarence,  upon  whom  Henry's  tears  had 


no  effect,  to  restore  tire  toy.    The  poor  little  fel 


<  70  THE    MOTHER. 

\  I 

$          low's  heart  was  almost  broken  at  this  hard  lesson 
5  in  the  school  of  human  life.  £ 

In  about  a  week,  Mrs.  Hartley  tried  it  over  again.          | 
Gifts  were  made  to  the  children,  and  soon  Clarence 
!;  went  to  work  to  get  possession  of  what  his  brother 

\  had.     But  Henry  had  not  forgotten  the  top,  and 

^          was,  therefore,  not  quite  so  generous  as  before.         ^ 
jj          He  withstood  every  effort  for  the  first  day.     On 
J          the  second,  however,  he  yielded.     On  the  follow-         \ 
ing  day  he  reclaimed  his  toys  ;  but  his  mother  in 
terposed  again,  and  maintained  Clarence's  right  to 
what  Henry  had  given  him. 

The  poor  child  seemed  unable  to  comprehend 
the  justice  of  this  decision,  and  grieved  so  much 
about  it,  that  Mrs.  Hartley  felt  unhappy.     But  ulti 
mate  good,  she  was  sure,  would  be  the  result,         /" 
painful  as  it  might  be  to  correct  her  child's  fault. 


On  the  next  occasion,  Clarence  found  it  much 
harder  to  prevail  upon  Henry  to  give  him  his  play- 
things  than  before.  The  same  result  following, 
the  little  fellow's  eyes  began  to  be  opened.  He 
would  look  ahead  and  think  when  Clarence  want 
ed  him  to  give  him  any  thing,  and  the  recollection 
of  the  permanent  losses  he  had  already  sustained, 
at  length  gave  him  the  resolution  to  persevere  in 
refusing  to  yield  up  his  right  to  any  thing  that  had 
been  given  t?  him.  He  would  lend  whatever  he 


CORRECTING    A    FAULT.  71 

had,  cheerfully.     But  when  asked  to  give,  he  gene 
rally  said — 

u  No. — If  I  give  it  to  you,  I  can't  get  it  back 
again." 

The  parents  did  not  like  to  check  the  generous 
spirit  of  their  child,  but  they  felt  that  it  was  neces 
sary  both  for  his  good  and  the  good  of  his  brother, 
that  he  should  be  taught  to  set  a  higher  value  upon 
what  was  his  own.  If  he  were  not  led  to  do  this 
while  young,  it  might  prevent  his  usefulness  when  j 
j  a  man,  by  leaving  him  the  prey  of  every  one. — 
Besides,  the  want  of  a  due  regard  to  his  own 
property  in  any  thing  was  not  right. 

Another  fault  in  Henry  they  felt  bound  to  visit 
<•          with  a  rigid  system  of  correction.     He  was  natu 
rally  an  obedient  child,  while  his  brother  was  the 
reverse.     He  was  also  very  yielding,  and   could 
easily  be  persuaded  by  Clarence  to  join  in  acts 
which  were   forbidden   by  their  parents.     When          J 
£          called  to  account,  his  usual  excuse  was,  that  he 
had  been .  asked  by  Clarence,  or  had  gone  with 
^          him.     He  did  not  appear  to  think  that  he  was  tD 
>          blame  for  any  thing,  if  he  acted  upon  his  older 
'I    .      brother's  suggestions.     The  only  way  to  correct 
this,  was  to  let  each  be  punished  for  offences  mu 
tually  committed,  even  though  Henry  was  far  less 
to  blame  than  Clarence.     It  was  only  by  doing  so 


72  THE    MOTHER. 

the  parents  felt,  that  Henry  could  be  made  to  see 
that  he  must  be  held  responsible  for  his  own  acts. 
This  course  soon  effected  all  they  desired.  Cla 
rence  was  usually  alone  in  all  flagrant  violations 
of  parental  authority. 


s 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

s 
s 

A     STRONG     CONTRAST. 

NEARER  than  Mrs.  Hartley  had  supposed,  lived 
for  many  years  an  old  but  now  almost  forgotten 
friend — Florence  Armitage ;  or  rather,  Mrs.  Archer.  \ 

We  will  introduce  her  on  the  very  night  that 
Marien's  birth-day  party  took  place,  by  way  of 
contrast.    The  house  in  which  she  lives  is  a  small, 
comfortless  one,  in  an  obscure  street  not  far  from         '< 
the  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley.     Her  father         :; 
has  become  poor,  and  her  husband,  whose  habits         < 
are  more  irregular  than  when  a  single  man,  receives 
a  small  salary  as  clerk,  more  than  half  of  which  he         f; 
spends  in  self-indulgence ;  the  other  half  is  eked         ;j 
out  to  his  wife,  who,  on  this  pittance,  is  compelled 
to  provide  for  five  children.     She  has  had  six,  but 
one  is  dead. 


[  III     .         I 

•I  A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  73 

<  •  '  \ 

It  was  a  clear  bright  evening  without,  but  there  /t 

was  nothing  cheerful  in  the  dwelling  of  William 
Archer.     The  supper  table  was  in  the  floor,  and  j 

on  it  burned  a  poor  light.     The  mother  sat  near 

!'         the  table,  with  an  infant  on  her  lap,  mending  a  pair      .     j| 
of  dark  stockings  with   coarse  yarn  of  a  lighter          <; 

>         color.     A  little  girl,  three  years  of  age,  was  swing- 

£         ing  on  her  chair,  and  a  boy  two  years  older  was 

drumming  on  the  floor  with  two  large  sticks,  ma-          ;» 
king  a  deafening  noise.     This  noise  Mrs.  Archer 

j;         bore  as  long  as  she  could,  when  her  patience  be 
coming  exhausted,  she  cried  out  in  a  loud,  fretful 

j         voice — 

"  You  Bill !    Stop  that  noise !" 

The  boy  paused  for  a  single  moment,  and  then          < 
resumed  his  amusement. 

\  "  Did  you  hear  me,  Bill  ?  you  heedless  wretch  ."* 

j         exclaimed  the  mother,  after  she   had    borne   the 

sound  for  some  time  longer.  ;> 

<  There  was  silence  for  about  a  minute— and  the 
noise  began  again. 

"  If  you  don't  stop  that,  Bill,  I'll  box  your  ears 
soundly,"  screamed  the  impatient  mother. 

The  boy  stopped  for  the  space  of  nearly  two 
minutes  this  time ;  then  he  went  on  again  with  his 
drumming. 


74  THE    MOTHER  J 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  send  you  to  bed  without         j 
your  supper  ?" 

u  No,  I  don't,"  replied  the  child. 

\  "  Then  hush  that  noise,  or  I  shall  certainly  send 

you  to  bed.     You  set  me  almost  crazy."  I; 

Bill,  as  his  mother  called  him,  laid  himself  back          % 
upon  the  floor,  and  commenced  kicking  up  his  heels.         ;, 
After  having  amused  himself  in  this  way  for  some 
time,  his  drum-sticks  were  again  resorted  to,  and 
the  room  was  once  more  filled  with  the  distracting 
din  he  made.     Mrs.  Archer  bore  it  as  long  as  she 

>          could,  and  then  she  boxed  the  child's  ears  soundly.         ;» 

|  After  the  cries  this  operation  extorted  had  died 

away,  all   was  quiet  enough  for  a  quarter  of  an         | 

s  hour,  when  Mr.  Archer  came  in  to  tea.  £ 

Twelve   years   had   changed   him  sadly.      His 

j          brow  was  gloomy,  his  eyes  sunken,  and  his  lips 
closely  drawn  together,  giving  his  countenance  an 

s          expression  of  sternness.    He  looked  at  least  twenty 
years  older.     He  did  not  even  cast  his  eyes  upon 
his  wife  as  he  entered,  but  drew  a  chair  to  the         ? 
table,  and  taking  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  be- 

J  gan  reading  it.  ; 

"  Bill,  go  and  tell  Jane  to  bring  up  tea,"  said 
Mrs.  Archer. 

j  The  child  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  cried 

down  to  the  cook,  in  a  tone  of  authority —  | 

L 


A   STRONG   CONTRAST.  75 

^  u  Bring  up  tea,  will  you  ?" 

No  notice  was  taken  of  this  by  the  parents.  Jane 
came  up  with  the  tea,  looking  as  sulky  as  possible. 

"  Here,  take  the  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  hand 
ing  Jane  the  child  in  a  most  ungracious  manner. 
Jane  took  the  child  quite  as  ungraciously  as  it  was 
tendered,  and  managed  to  keep  it  crying  most  of 
^         the  time  they  were  at  supper. 

"  Where  is  John  ?"  asked  Mr.  Archer,  lookinc 
up  at  his  wife  when  about  half  through  with 
%         silent  meal. 

"  Dear  knows,  for  I  don't !     He  came  in  from 
school,  but  was  off  at  once  as  usual.     He  is  going 
;>         to  ruin  as  fast  as  ever  a  boy  was." 

"  Why  do  you  let  him  run  the  streets  in  this          i 
way  ?" 

"  He's  got  beyond  me.  I  don't  pretend  to  try  to 
?  manage  him.  I  might  just  as  well  tell  him  to  go 
as  stay.  It  would  be  all  the  same  to  him.  It's 
high  time  you  had  taken  him  in  hand,  I  can  tell 
you.  Florence  is  at  her  grandmother's,  and  I  in 
tended  sending  John  after  her  an  hour  ago.  But 
he  hasn't  shown  himself." 

Mr.  Archer  did  not  reply ;  he  felt  worried  and 
angry.  While  they  were  yet  at  the  table.  John,  a 
lad  of  some  eleven  years  old,  came  in,  and  threw 
his  hat  down  in  the  corner. 


76  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Go  and  hang  your  hat  up,  sir,"  said  his  father. 
"  Is  that  the  place  for  it  ?" 

John  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

"Now,  where  have  you  been,  sir?"  was  the 
father's  angry  interrogation. 

"  I've  been  playing." 

"  What  business  have  you  to  go  off  without  ask 
irig  your  mother  ?  I've  a  great  mind  to  take  off 
your  jacket  for  you,  sir.  If  ever  I  hear  of  this 
again,  I'll  give  you  such  a  lacing  as  you've  never 
S  had  in  your  life.  Don't  sit  down  to  the  table 
there !  Go,  put  on  your  hat  again,  and  be  off  for 
your  sister." 

«  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  mimicking  the  tones  and  man 
ner  of  the  boy.     "  At  your  grandmother's,"  said 
Mr.  Archer. — "  Go  along  after  her,  and  be  quick. 
She  ought  to  have  been  home  more  than  an  hour 
ago." 

John  went  out  slowly  and  sulkily. 

"  If  that  boy  goes  to  ruin,  you  will  have  no  one 
to  blame  but  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  ill-na 
turedly. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  are  going  to  make  that 
out,"  returned  his  wife  in  a  voice  quite  as  amiable 
as  that  in  which  he  iiad  spoken. 

KYou  have  no  government  over  him." 


A    STRONG   CONTRAST.  77 

\  UI  have  quite  as  much   as  yourself,"  retorted 

;>         Mrs.  Archer. 

'•  Humph  !     You  don't  think  so,  do  you  ?"— >  he 
£         spoke  in  a  sneering  tone. 

"  I  think  just  what  1  say.     If  you  paid  the  least 

!>         attention  to  your  children,  they  would  grow  up 

very  differently.     As  it  is,  I  have  no  comfort  with 

them,  and  never  hope  to  have  any.     I  expect  to 

j;          see  them  go  to  ruin." 

"  So  I  should  think,  by  the  way  you  let  them 
run.     You  talk  about  my  government  over  them, 

>         but  I  should  like  to  know  what  I  can  do,  when  I          $ 

.1  f 

j  am  not  with  them  an  hour  in  the  day.  Whatever 
is  the  result,  you  will  have  only  yourself  to 
blame." 

«;  "That's  just  it.     Instead   of  staying   at  home 

with  your  children,  and  trying  to  make  something 
out  of  them,  you  are  off  every  night  the  dear 
knows  where,  but  after  no  good,  of  course." 

;,'  "  Hold  your  tongue,  will  you  ?"    Mr.  Archer  gave          ;• 

his  wife  an  angry  scowl  as  he  said  this.  £ 

The  wife  felt  little  inclination  to  contend  further. 
There  was  a  brutality  in  her  husband's  tone  and 
manner  that  stunned  her.  She  said  nothing  more. 
While  the  father  and  mother  were  engaged  in  a 
war  of  words,  the  little  boy,  before  mentioned,  was 
onusing  himself  by  spinning  his  spoon  around  in 


78  TBE    MOTHER. 

£          his  plate,  which  made  a  most  annoying  clatter,  and         £ 
$          served  to  add  to  the  irritation  felt  by  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Archer,  although  the  cause  was  not  noticed 
,'          until  tneir  contention  was  over. 

"  Do   be  quiet,  child,"  said  the  mother,  as  the        | 
noise  of  the  rattling  spoon  continued  to  fall  upon        | 
j  her  ear. 

She  might  as  well  not  have  spoken.     If  any 
change  was  produced  by  her  words,  it  was  an  in 
creased  vigor  in  the  movement  of  the  spoon. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  boy's  head  and  said — 
"Don't  make  that  noise, Bill — you  distract  me." 
jf  The  moment  the  pressure  of  the  hand  was  re 

moved,  like  a  re-acting  spring  the  movement  went         j 


on  again  ;  the  noise,  if  any  thing,  louder  than  ever. 


A  vigorous  box  on  the  ear  signified  that  poor  Mrs. 
Archer's  patience  was  exhausted.     Almost  simul-         J 

'I  taneous  with  the  loud  scream  of  the  child  came 

the  loud  bang  of  the  door.     Her  husband  had  pre 
cipitately  left  the  house.     A  state  of  sad,  dreamy         s 
abstraction  settled  upon  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Archer. 

I;  Although  Bill,  as  the  little  fellow  was  called,  fairly 

yelled  out  from  passion  and  pain,  she  did  not  hear         s 
him 

Jane,  the  cook,  who  was  nursing  the  babe,  wait 
ed  patiently  for  some  time  after  Archer  had  left,  to         J 
be  called  up  from  the  kitchen-     But  minute  after         J 


j  A.    SrilONO    CONTRAST.  79 

f 

minute  passed,  and  no  summons  came.     It  was 
nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  she  ascended  to 


*i  the  dining-room.  She  found  Mrs.  Archer  in  a  state 
of  entire  absent-mindedness,  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand — the  little  boy  was  fast  asleep  in  his  \ 

J          chair  J 

The  mother  roused  up  on  the  entrance  of  the 

;•         cook,  and  said — 

"  Here,  Jane,  give  me  the  baby,  and  take  this 
child  up  and  put  him  to  bed  before  you  clear  off          <j 

\         the   table."     The   fair   young  face   and   glowing 

cheeks  of  the  little  boy,  as  Jane  lifted  him  up,  met  J 
the  mother's  eye.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  again  •; 
fell  into  her  former  dreamy  state.  jj 

In  a  little  while  John  and  Florence  came  in. 
Florence  was  a  sweet-faced  child,  just  nine  years          ;> 
old.     Her  disposition  was  mild,-  and  she  was  very 
thoughtful — rendering  her  mother  much  service  in 
her  attentions  to  the  younger  children.     Her  first          «; 
act  was  to  go  up  to  her  mother  and  kiss  her,  and 

;.'          then  kiss  the  babe  that  lay  upon  her  lap. 

u  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  time,  dear  ?"  asked          ;> 
Mrs.  Archer. 

\  "O.  yes,  mother.     I  have  had  a  nice  time. — • 

Grandma  baked  us  a  whole  basket  full  of  cakes, 
which  I  have  brought  home;  and  she  let  me  help 
her.  J  cut  them  all  cut.  Where  is  Willv  and 


80  THE    MOTHER. 

Mary  r"  she  added,  looking  around.  "They  must 
have  some  cakes.  Oh,  dear !  Here's  sis'  fast  asleep 
on  the  floor.  Shall  I  wake  her  up,  mother,  and 
give  her  a  cake  ?" 

j;  "  No,  dear,  I  wouldn't  wake  her  now.    The  cakes 

5  will  taste  just  as  good  to  her  in  the  morning.1" 

«  Where  is  Willy  ?" 
$         »     u  He's  in  bed.     Jane  took  him  up  stairs." 

"Shall  I  hold  the  baby,  while  you  undress 
Mary  ?"  asked  Florence,  as  she  laid  off  her  bonnet 
and  shawl 

"Yes,  you  may." 

"Dear  little  baby!"  murmured  Florence,  as  she 
took  the  child  from  her  mother's  arms,  and  sat 
down  with  it  upon  a  low  stool. 

"  I  want  some  supper,"  said  John,  pouting  out 
his  lips,  and  looking  as  ugly  and  ill-natured  as 
possible. 

"  There's  some  bread  and  butter  for  you.  Sil 
down  and  eat  that,  and  then  take  yourself  off  to 
bed,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  I  want  some  tea." 

Ci  You'll  not  get  any." 

"  I'll  go  and  ask  Jane  to  give  me  some." 

"  Take  care,  sir ;  or  you'll  be  sent  off  without 
mouthful." 

With  as  bad  a  grace  as  possible.  John  sat  dow» 


A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  81 

upon  the  corner  of  a  chair,  and  commenced  eating. 
The  moment  his  mother  left  the  room  with  Mary 
in  her  arms,  his  hand  was  in  the  sugar-bowl ;  a 
portion  of  the  contents  of  which  were  freely  laid 
upon  his  bread  and  butter. 

"  If  I  don't  get  tea,  I'll  have  sugar,"  he  said.  < 

He  was  in  the  act  of  helping  himself  from  the 

<;  eugar-bowl  for  the  third  time,  when  his  mother 
came  in.  The  consequence  was  that  he  got  his 

!>         ears  soundly  boxed,  and  was  sent  off  to  bed. 

Florence  continued  to  nurse  the  babe,  or  rock  it 
in  the  cradle,  for  an  hour,  when  she  became  too 
sleepy  to  hold  up  her  head.  Kissing  her  mother 
affectionately,  the  child  said  good  night,  and  went 
off,  alone,  to  her  room,  where  she  undressed  her 
self  and  retired  for  the  night.  But  no  prayer  was  ^ 
said — her  mother  had  never  taught  her  this  best  of 
infantile  lessons. 

Mrs.  Archer  sat  up  sewing  until  nearly  eleven 

lj  o'clock,  and  then  sought  her  pillow.  As  usual,  her 
husband  had  not  yet  returned.  It  was  past  mid 
night  when  he  came  home. 


Too  many  of  the  evenings  that  were  passed  in 
the  family  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archer,  were  similar  to 
the  one  we  have  described.  The  influence  upon 
the  children  was,  of  course,  bad.  The  evil  quali 
ties  of  mind  they  inherited,  instead  of  being  weak 


I 

82  THE    MOTfia* 


ened  and  subduea,  were  quickened  into  a  prematura 
activity.     There  was  no  strength  of  principle,  and 
no  order  in  the  mother's  mind  to  counterbalance 
the  indifference  of  the  father.     Had  she  been  fitted 
for  the  high  and  holy  duties  of  a  mother,  she  would 
have  left  a  far  different  impression  upon  her  chil-         > 
dren's  minds  than  she  had  made.    The  good  would         jj 
have  been  developed,  and  the  evil  held  in  a  state 
of  quiescence.     She  would  have  stored  up  in  the         J 
minds  of  her  children  good  and  true  principles  that         j 
would  remain  there,  and  save  them  in  the  day  when         £ 
the  trials  of  mature  life  came.  % 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MORE     CONTRASTS. 


FIVE  more  years  of  patience,  forbearance,  and  £ 
anxious  solicitude  passed,  and  Mrs.  Hartley  be-  ;» 
gan  to  see  many  good  results  of  her  labor,  espe 
cially  when  she  contrasted  the  habits  and  manners  s 
of  her  own  children  with  the  habits  and  manners  jj 
of  the  children  of  some  of  her  friends. 

One  of  these  friends,  a  Mrs.  Fielding,  had  four 
children  of  naturally  ven*  good  dispositions.    They 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  S£ 

were  affectionate  to  one  another,  and  seemed  to 
J          have  more  than  usual  of  a  home  feeling   about  j 

them.  The  mother's  fireside  circle  might  have 
\  been  an  earthly  paradise,  if  she  had  been  at  all  dis 
posed  to  consult  her  children's  good,  instead  of 
her  own  pleasure.  But  this  she  was  not  disposed 
to  do.  She  was  vain,  and  fond  of  company. — . 
When  she  had  provided  a  good  nurse  for  her  chil 
dren,  she  thought  that  her  duty  was  done — it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  her  children  needed  a  com 
panion,  such  as  only  she  could  be  to  them,  as 
much  as  they  needed  a  nurse  to  provide  for  their 
bodily  comfort. 

This  woman  came  in  to  see  Mrs.  Hartley  one 
day,  and  found  her  sitting  at  the  piano. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Field 
ing,  in  a  gay  tone.     "  You  playing  the  piano !     1 
thought  you  had  enough  else  to  do." 
s  "  I'm  only  practising-  some  new  cotillions  for  the 

children." 

"  What  good  will  your  practising  them  do  the          J> 
children,  I  wonder  ?"  } 

"  A  good  deal,  I  hope.  We  have  a  little  family 
party  among  ourselves  every  Wednesday  evening, 
when  the  children  dance,  and  I  play  for  them." 

"And  you  practise  for  this  purpose  during  the 
day." 


L 


s 

I  I 

84  THE    MOTHER.  < 

J  \ 

I  practise  just  one  hour  every  Wednesday  foi 
$          this  very  purpose,  and  no  other."  ;• 

"  You  are  a  queer  woman.     Why  don't  you  let         J 
|;          Marien  play  while  the  other  children  dance?" 
J  "  Because  Marien  likes  to  dance  as  well  as  the         | 

rest  of  them.    And,  more  than  that,  she  is  the  most 
graceful  in  her  movements,  and  the  most  perfect  in 
£J          her  steps,  and  I  want  the  others  to  benefit  by  her 
s          superior  accomplishments."  J 

J  "Let  their  dancing  master  take   care  of  their 

steps.     It  is  his  business,  and  he  will  do  it  much 
bntter." 

"The  school  will  do  little  good,  Mrs.  Fielding^ 
if  it  be  not  seconded  by  a  well  ordered  home  edu-         ff 
cation.     Of  this  1  am  well  satisfied." 

"  But  it  is  no  light  task  to  make  home  another 
school-house."  I; 

u  Home  need  not,  and  should  not  be  such  a 
\          place.     It  should  leave  its  younger  members    in 

more  freedom  than  school .  affords.     But,  what  is         \ 
learned  at  school  from  duty,  should  be  practised  at 
j          home  from  affection.     Children  ought  to  be  led 
into  the  delightful  exercise,  of  the  knowledge  they 
attain,  simultaneously,^  possible,  with  its  attain 
ments.     This  should  be  their  reward.    As  soon  as         \ 
\          they  have  mastered  the  rudiments  of  language,  and 
<;          can  read,  entertaining  and  instructive  books  should 


. ) 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  85 


be  provided  for  them ;  and,  at  every  step  in  their          <; 
progress,  the  means  of  bringing  down  into  activity 
all  they  learn,  should  be  supplied  to  the  utmost 
extent.     It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  have  musical  J 

and  dancing  parties  among  ourselves  every  week, 
and  I  find  it  no  task,  but  a  real  pleasure,  to  play 
for  them,  and,  in  order  to  keep  up  with  the  new 
music,  to  practise  a  few  hours  every  week," 

"  But  how  do  you  find  time  ?  You,  who  are 
such  a  slave  to  your  family !"  s 

"  If  every  thing  is  done  according  to  a  regular 
system,  we  can  easily  find  time  for  almost  any 
thing." 

"  I  don't  know.  You  beat  me  out.  I  do  scarce 
ly  any  thing  in  my  family,  it  seems — and  yet  I  am 
always  hurried  to  death  when  I  do  that  little,  so 
that  it  isn't  more  than  half  done.  As  to  practising 
on  the  piano,  that  is  out  of  the  question."  < 

Mrs.  Hartley  faintly  sighed.  '«; 

"You  have  four  sweet  children,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause ; — "  I  never  saw  better  dispositions,  natu-          ;j 
rally,  in  my  life.    You  might  do  any  thing  with 
them  you  pleased." 

"  What  you  say,  a  mother's  partiality  aside,  is 

tiue,"  replied  Mrs.  Fielding,  with  a  brightening 

face.     "  They  are  all  good  children.     I  only  wish 

I  was  a  better  mother — that  I  was  like  you,  Mrs, 

8 


? 

j 

86  THE    MOTHER. 


Hartley.     I  fear  I  am  too  fond  of  society ;  but  I 


can't  help  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Fielding.  Love  for 
our  children  should  be  strong  enough  to  make  us 
correct  any  thing  in  ourselves  that  stands  in  the 
way  of  their  good.  A  mother's  duties  ought  to 
take  precedence  over  every  thing  else." 
J  "I  don't  think  a  mother  ought  to  be  a  slave  to 

t          her  children." 

"Willing  servitude  is  not  slavery.  How  can 
you  use  such  a  word  in  connexion  with  a  mother  ? 
Her  devotion  should  be  from  a  love  that  never 
wearies — never  grows  cold." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  may  be ;  mine  wearies 
often  enough." 

"I  feel  discouraged  sometimes,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hartley.  "But  my  love  never  abates.  It  grows 
stronger  with  every  new  difficulty  that  is  pre- 


I;          sented." 


"  You  are  one  in  a  thousand,  then ;  that  is  all  I 
can  say.     I  know  a  good  many  mothers,  and    I 
know  that  they  all    complain   bitterly  about  the 
trouble  they  have  with  their  children." 
\  "  They  would  have  less  trouble,  if  they  loved 

j  them  more." 

"  How  can  you  make  that  appear  ?" 

"  Love  ever  strives  to  benefit  its  object.     A  true 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  8? 

love  for  children  prompts  the  mother  to  aeek  with 
t         the  most  self-sacrificing  assiduity,  for  the  means  of 

doing  her  offspring  good." 

\  "  Oh  dear !     I'm  sadly  afraid  I  am  not  a  true 

/  mother  then.  It's  no  use  to  disguise  it — I  cannot 
give  up  every  comfort  for  my  children ;  and  I  don't 
think  we  are  required  to  do  it." 

"True  love,  Mrs.  Fielding,  sacrifices  nothing, 
when  it  is  in  pursuit  of  its  objects,  for  it  desires 
nothing  so  ardently  as  the  attainment  of  that  ob 
ject.  I  am  not  aware  that  I  give  up  every  comfort ; 
I  sometimes,  it  is  true,  deny  myself  a  gratification, 
because,  in  seeking  it,  I  must  neglect  my  children, 
or  interfere  with  their  pleasures ;  but  I  have  never 
<  done  this  that  I  have  not  been  more  than  repaid 

for  all  I  thought  I  had  lost." 

jj  "  Well,  that  is  a  comfort.     I  only  wish  I  could 

say  as  much." 

"  You  would  soon  be  able  to  say  so,  if  you  were 
to  make  sacrifices  for  your  children  from  love  to 
them.1- 

"  I  think  I  do  love  them." 
"  I  am  f  nrp  of  that,  Mrs.  Fielding.    But,  to  speak 
plainly  as  o/ie  friend  may  venture  to  speak  to  an 
other,  perhaps  you  love  yourself  more." 

"  Perhaps  1  do.  But  how  is  that  to  be  deter 
mined  ?" 


88  THE    MOTHER.  < 

"  Very  easily.    We*  love  those  most  who  occupy         ^ 
most  of  our  thoughts,  and  for  whose  comfort  and 
happiness  we  are  most  careful,  whether  it  be  our 
selves  or  our  children." 

Mrs.   Fielding    did    not    reply.      Mentally   she 
applied  the  rule,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge         ;! 
that  she  loved  herself  more  than  she  did  her  chil-         < 
dren. 

The  oldest  boy  of  Mrs.  Fielding  was  about  the 
same  age  of  Clarence.     Having  completed  all  their 
preparatory  studies,  the  two  boys  were   sent  the 
game  year  to  college.     At  the  age  of  sixteen,  they         j 
left  their  homes  for  the  first  time,  to  be  absent,  ex 
cept   at  short  intervals,  for  three   years.     James         J 
Fielding  left  home  with  reluctance. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  mother,"  he  said  the  day 
before  he  was  to  start.  |> 

"  Why  not,  James  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  would  rather  go  to  school  here.     I  can  learn         j; 
just  as  much." 

"  Yes,  but  think  of  the  honor,  my  son,  of  pass 
ing  through  college.     It  isn't  every  boy  that  has 
this  privilege.    It  will  make  a  man  of  you.    I  hope         \ 
you  will  do  credit  to  yourself  and  your  parents. 
You  must  strive  for  the  first  honors.     Your  father         4 
took  them  before  you."  $ 

Very  different  was  the  parting  counsol  of  Mrs 


1 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  89  j 

Hartley   to   her  son.     The   question    whether   ii 
would  be  best  in  the  end  to  send  their  son  to  col-          s 

5  lege,  was  long  and  anxiously  debated  between  the 
father  and  mother.  Many  reasons,  for  and  against, 

£          were  presented,  and  these  were  scanned  minutely.          \ 
The  strongest  objection  felt  by  them  was  the  fact 
that,  from  the  congregating  together  of  a  large  num-          ] 
ber  of  young  men  at  college,  among  whom  would 

;>  be  many  with  loose  principles  and  bad  habits,  there 
would  be  danger  of  moral  contamination.  For  a 
time  they  inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  send  their  son  from  home ;  but  their 

'/,        anxiety  to  secure  for  him  the  very  best  education 

the  country  afforded,  at  last  determined  them.  \ 

5;  Long  and  earnestly  did  Mrs.  Hartley  commune          \ 

<>         with  her  boy,  on  the  evening  before  his  departure. 

"  Never  forget,  my  son,"  she  said,  "  the  end  for 

which  you  should  strive  after  knowledge.     It  is; 

j         that  you  may  be  better  able,  by  your  efforts  as  a 
man,  to  benefit  society.     A  learned  man,  can  al 
ways  perform  higher  uses  than  an  ignorant  man.          J 
And  remember,  that  one  so  young  and  so  little 
acquainted  with  the  world  as  yourself,  will  be  sub-          $ 
jected  to  many  severe  temptations.     But  resist  evu 
with  a  determined  spirit.     Beware  of  the  first  de 
viation  from  right.     Suffer  not  the  smallest  stain 
to  come  upon  your  garments.    Let  your  mother          ! 


5  90  THE    MOTHER. 

receive  you  back  as  pure  as  when  you  went  forth,          ; 
my  son.  i 

;,'  "  You  will  discover,  soon  after  you  enter  col-          j 

iege,  a  spirit  of  insubordination — a  disposition  iri          \ 

J         many  of  the  students  to  violate  the  laws  of  the  in- 

j;  stitution;  but  do  not  join  in  with  them.  It  is  just 
as  wrong  for  a  student  to  violate  the  laws  of  col 
lege,  as  it  is  for  a  citizen  to  violate  the  laws  of  his 
country.  They  are  wholesome  regulations,  made 
for  the  good  of  the  whole,  and  he  who  weakens 
their  force  does  a  wrong  to  the  whole.  Guard 
yourself  here,  my  son,  for  here  you  will  be  tempt-  jj 
ed.  But  stand  firm.  If  you  break,  wilfully,  a 
college  law,  your  honor  is  stained,  and  no  subse 
quent  obedience  can  efface  it.  Guard  your  honor 

J;          my  dear  boy !     It  is  a  precious  and  holy  thing. 

"  I  will  write  to  you  often,  and  you  must  write 

\          often  to  me.     Talk  to  me,  in  your  letters,  as  freely 
as  you  would  talk  if  we  were  face  to  face.     Con 
sider  me  your  best  friend,  and   he   who   would         s 
weaken  my  influence   over   you,  as   your  worst 
enemy.     You  cannot  tell,  my  son,  how  anxious  1         jj 
feel  about  you.     I  know,  far  better  than  you  can 
know,  how  intimately  danger  will  surround  you. 
But,  if  you  will  make  God's  holy  law,  as  written 
in  his  Ten  Commandments,  the  guide  of  your  life, 
you  will  be  safe.     Christian,  in  his  journey  to  the 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  91 

land  of  Canaan,  had  not  a  path  to  travel  in  more 
I         beset  with  evil  than  will  be  yours,  but  you  will  be 
safe  from  all  harm,  i'f,  like  him,  you  steadily  resist 
and  fight  against  every  thing  that  would  turn  you 
from  the  straight  and  narrow  way  of  truth  and  in 
tegrity.    You  go  with  your  mother's  blessing  upon 
J          your  head,  and  your  mother's  prayers  following 
you." 

The  earnestness  with  which  his  mother  spoke, 
affected  the  heart  of  Clarence.  He  did  not  reply, 
but  he  made  a  firm  resolution  to  do  nothing  that 
would  give  her  a  moment's  pain.  He  loved  her 
tenderly ;  for  she  had  ever  been  to  him  the  best  !; 
of  mothers,  and  this  love  was  his  prompter. 

"  I  will  never  pain  tht;  heart  of  so  good  a  mo 
ther,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow 
that  night.     How  different  might  have  been  his 
1;         feelings,  if  he  had  been  raised  under  different  ma- 
5         ternal  influences.  !; 


r 


;  CHAPTER  X.  > 

c  ,  S 

FRUIT.  !; 

I|  s 

J  ABOUT  the  same  time  that  Clarence  Hartky  WM 

!;  «ent  to  college,  the  oldest  son  of  Mr.  Archer  was 

f  sent  to  sea  as  the  last  hope  of  reclaiming  him.    He         <; 

^  had  been  suffered  to  run  into  all  kinds  of  bad  com-         \\ 

,'  L 

<         pany  until  he  was  so  degraded,  that  his  mother         ,; 

j;         lost  all  control  over  him.     And  yet,  this  boy  had 

j;         naturally  a  more   obedient  temper  than  Clarence,         ;! 

J  and  could  have  been  managed  far  more  easily.  It 
is  true  that  the  two  mothers  were  placed  under 
different  circumstances — nevertheless,  even  the  un 
happy  external  condition  of  Florence  Archer  was 
no  excuse.  If  she  had  truly  loved  her  child,  she  $ 
could  have  brought  an  influence  to  bear  upon  him 
that  would  have  saved  him.  <j 

At  college,  Clarence   found   himself  in  a  new         jj 
world.     At  first,  the  reckless  bearing  and  free  con- 

}          versation  of  some  of  the  students,  surprised  and 
shocked  him.     Soon,  familiarity  with  such  things 
made  them  seem  less  reprehensible.    He  could  not 
only  listen  to  them  but  often  join  heartily  in  the 
92 


FRUIT.  93          ; 

lauglt  awakened  by  some  sally  of  ribald  wit.— 
Wher  alone,  however,  and  the  remembrance  of  j 

home  arose  in  his  mind,  he  felt  grieved  to  think 
that  Le  could  have  taken  pleasure  in  any  thing  that 
would  so  have  shocked  his  mother's  ears.  >; 

He  wrote  home  every  week,  and  wrote  with  all  I; 

the  frankness  of  a  mind  that  had  nothing  to  con-  !J 

ceal  Every  letter  was  promptly  answered  by  his  ,s 
mother,  and,  in  every  letter  from  her  were  some  <! 
tenderly  urged  precepts  that  sver  came  with  a  < 

timely  force.  These  were  not  hackneyed  repeti 
tion-a  of  the  same  forms  that  had  been  enunciated 
time-  and  again,  until  all  their  force  was  gone;  nor  ^ 

did  they  come  to  her  son  in  the  shape  of  mere          ;! 
did?  sties.     They  had  an  appropriateness,  a  beauty, 
and  a  force  about  them,  that  ever  inspired  Clarence          •) 
with  a  new  love  of  what  was  morally  excellent.          j; 
If,  at  any  time,  he  felt  inclined  to  enter  the  forbid 
den  grounds  of  pleasure,  where  too  many  of  the          ;. 
students  roved,  the  very  next  letter  from  home 
would  win  him  back.     The  love  of  his  mother 
was  about  him,  like  a  protecting  sphere.  % 

Very  different  was  the  case  with  James  Fielding.          «j 
It  was  not  long  before  his  natural  love  of  com 
panionship  caused  him  to  form  intimate  associa-          $ 
tians  with  several  of  the  students  whose  principles          *t 
\nd  habits  were  not  good.     With  these  he  spent 


94  THE    MOTHER. 

hours  every  night  in  amusements  and  conversations 
by  no  means  calculated  to  elevate  the  tone  of  his 
feelings.  He  made  frequent  efforts  to  induce  Cla-  <J 

rence  to  join  them,  who  did  so  for  a  few  times,  but  !; 

for  a  few  times  only.  After  having  spent  an  even- 
irg  in  drinking,  smoking  and  card-playing,  inter-  j 

»persed  with  songs  and  conversation  such  as  his  ;' 

ears  had  never  before  heard,  he  found,  on  retiring 
to  his  room,  a  letter  upon  his  table  from  his  mo-  <! 

ther.     The  sight  of  this  letter  caused  an  instant          ^ 
revulsion  in  his  feelings.     He  did  not  open  it  for 
some  time.     The  very  superscription,  in  the  well-          $ 
known  hand-writing  of  his  mother,  seemed  to  re  ^ 

buke  him  for  having  felt  pleasure  in  what  would  have  $ 
Dained  her  pure  mind  deeply.  When,  at  length,  he 
opened  and  read  the  letter,  it  affected  him  to  tears. 
"Mr  DEAR  CLARENCE" — it  said — "  How  much 
we  missed  you  last  night  at  our  family  party. — 
There  were  Marien,  Henry,  Fanny,  and  Lillian; 
but  Clarence  was  away.  I  believe  I  thought  much 
oftener  of  my  absent  one,  than  I  did  of  those  who 
were  present.  Henry  accompanied  Marien  at  the 
piano,  on  the  flute,  but  not  so  perfectly  as  you 
used  to  do ;  and  yet  he  plays  very  well  for  one  so 
young.  Fanny  i?  improving  rapidly  in  her  music; 
she  performed  for  us  a  very  difficult  overture,  and  $ 
did  it  exceedingly  well  She  dances,  too,  with  ad- 


FRUIT. 

mirable  grace.     How  I  wanted  you  to  see  her  last          j 
evening.    Dear  little  Lillian  is  always  talking  about 
you,  and  asking  when  you  will  come  home.     She          j 
grows  sweeter  and  dearer  every  day.     We  had  a 
very  happy  time,  indeed,  as  we  always  have ;  but 
it  would  have  been  much  happier,  had  not  one 
been  missing.  | 

(  "I  had  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Fielding  yesterday. 

She  says  that  James  has  only  written  to  her  twice 

(f  since  he  has  been  away.  She  asked  me  how  often 
I  heard  from  you  ;  when  I  told  her,  every  few  days, 
she  said  that  if  she  could  hear  from  her  boy  every 

\         few  weeks  she  would  be  very  glad.     Your  mother          $ 
thanks   you,    Clarence,   for   your   promptness   in 
writing.    It  is  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  hear  from 

;>         you   often.     How   is   Thomas    Fielding  ?     Is   he          j> 
doing  well  ?     I  wish  he  would  write  home  more          \ 

\         frequently.     I  thought  his  mother  looked  troubled          \ 

\         when  she  spoke  of  him." 

Clarence  sighed  and  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
letter  on  reading  this   passage.     He    thought   of 

;.  James  Fielding,  and  the  dangerous  ground  upon 
which  he  was  standing,  and  sighed  again  as  he  re 
sumed  the  perusal  of  his  letter.  The  whole  epistle 

j  came  pure  and  true  from  a  mother's  heart,  and  it 
so  filled  the  mind  of  Clarence  with  images  of  home, 

j         and  made  that  home  appear  so  like  a  little  heaven, 


I 


(•  ,' 

•i  j 

j  96  THE    MOTHER. 

that  he  experienced  a  shuddering  sensation  when 
he  compared  it  with  the  scene  in  which  he  had  so 
lately  been  a  participant. 

"Thank  God  for  such  a  mother!"  he  could  not 
help  ejaculating,  as  he  read  the  last  line  of  her  let-         ^ 
ter.     "  Shall  I  ever  cause  her  to  shed  a  tear  ?     No         j 
—never !" 

"  You  went  away   too  soon   last   night,"  said         jj 
James  Fielding  to  him  thf  next  morning.     "  We 
had  some  rare  sport  after  you  left,'  with  one  of  the         ^ 
Professors.     He  guessed  that  all  was  not  right,  and         ;> 
came  tapping  at  the  door  about  eleven  o'clock. 
We  let  him  in,  and  then  mystified  him  until  he 
<  was  glad  to  sneak  off,  half  begging  our  pardons  for         J 

<;  having  suspected  us  of  any  thing  wrong.    Ha !  ha '         ^ 

It  was  capital  fun." 

"  I  think  I  staid  quite  long  enough,"  Clarence 
replied,  gravely. 

"Why  so?" 

"  J  don't  believe  any  of  us  were  doing  right." 

"Indeed'    Why  not  ?" 

"  We  were  doing  what  we  knew  would  not  be         \ 
j  sanctioned  by  the  Faculty."  ;> 

"  1  suppose  we  were.     But  what  of  that? 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  think.     It  is  wrong  to 


violate  any  of  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  in- 


8titution." 


V^-w-^-^-^ 


FRUIT. 

"  Humph !  If  that  is  wrong,  a  good  many  sins 
are  committed  with  the  passage  of  every  twenty- 
four  hours.  You  are  more  nice  than  wise,  Cla 
rence.  A  little  fun  is  pleasant  at  all  times.  I  go 
in  for  it  myself." 

"  Innocent  fun  is  well  enough.  But  where  it  is 
sought  in  vicious  courses,  it  is  imminently  danger 
ous.  At  the  last,  it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and 
stingeth  like  an  adder.  When  did  you  hear  from 


\,         home,  James  ?"  s 

"  From  home  ?     Oh,  I'm  sure  I  don't  remember. 

s         I  was  going  to  say  I  don't  hear  from  there  at  all  ; 

but  I  have  had  two  letters  from  mother,  filling  half 

a  page  each." 

<*  When  did  you  write  ?" 

^  "  About  a  month  ago,  to  say   I  wanted  some 

pocket  money." 

"  I  heard  from  home  last  night." 
"  Ah  !    Gk>t  a  remittance,  I  suppose/7 
!;  u  Of  love  from  my  mother,  more  precious  than 

j  gold  or  silver,"  replied  Clarence  with  some  feeling. 
w  She  says  that  your  mother  complains  that  you  do 
not  write  to  her." 

"  Sav  to  your  mother,  if  you  please,  that  I  com 


plain  that  my  mother  doesn't  write  to  me.     So  the 
account  will  stand  balanced.     I  never  could  write 
a  letter,  except  to  say  I  wanted  something.     And 
9 


L. 


98  THE    MOTHER. 


I  suppose  mother  is  like  me.     We  will  excuse  one 
another." 

James  spoke  with  a  levity  that  pained  Clarence. 
He  wanted  to  admonish  him,  but  felt  that,  in  hia 
present  mood,  it  would  be  useless. 

During  the  first  year  tha*  Clarence  was  at  col-          I; 
lege,  the  principles  he  had  been  taught  by  his         ;' 
mother  became  rules  of  action  with  him.     He  set         ;• 
his  face  resolutely  against  every  thing  that  he  con 
sidered  wrong.  James  Fielding,  on  the  contrary,  was         <! 
among  the  most  thoughtless  young  men  in  the  in 
stitution.    His  wishes  and  passions  were  his  rulers.         !; 

One  day  he  came  to  Clarence  and  said  — 

"  There  is  to  be  some  sport  in  about  a  week."  ;> 

"Is.  there?    What  will  it  be  like  ?" 

"  We  don't  intend  going  to  morning  prayers  until 
seven  o'clock."  <j 

"  But  the  regulations  say  six." 

"  I  know.     Six  is  too  early,  and  we  are  going  to         > 
have  it  at  seven."  j 

"  You  did  not  come  here  to  make  laws,  but  to 
observe  them,"  gravely  replied  Clarence. 

"  We    came   here   to  be  instructed,  not  to  be 
dragged  out  of  bed  to  morning  prayers  before  day         > 
—  not  to  be  bamboozled  about  by  arbitrary  Pro 
fessors.     It  is  a  public  institution,  and  the  Faculty 
have  no  right  to  make  oppressive  laws." 


FRUIT.  99 

*  If  any  one  dislikes  these   laws,  let  him  go 
home.     It  is  the  only  honest  course.     But  what 
jj         else  is  intended  ?" 

"We  intend " 

u  We?     Have  you  really  joined  in  this   con 
spiracy  against  law  and  order  ?" 

5  "  Certainly  I  have.    With  the  exception  of  about 

<»         twenty,  every  student  is  pledged  to  go  through 
<!         with  the  matter  when  it  is  once  started.     My  duty- 
is  to  bring  you   over.     We  wish  to  rise  as  one 

•'  •»!  / 

,\         man." 

*»  After   you   have   refused    to    attend    morning 
prayers,  what  do  you  propose  doing  ?" 

"•  If  the  hour  is  changed  to  seven,  all  well  and 
good.     Nothing  more  will  be  done.     But  if  not, 
our  next  course  will  be  to  attend  regularly  at  six 
!;         for  a  week,  and  scrape  the  chaplain  down." 
"What!" 

"  Completely  drown  his  voice  by  scraping  our 
feet." 

rt  You  certainly  are  beside  yourself,  James.     I 
cannot  believe  that  you  would  join  in  doing  so 
$          wrong  a  deed.     In  this  you  would  not  only  insult  <s 

5     .     the  institution,  but  Heaven."  ;! 

u  Oh  no.    Heaven  doesn't  have  much  to  do  wiiH 
J          the  BIX  o'clock  prayers  of  college  students." 

u  You  speak  with  an  unbecoming  levity?  James  " 


j 

100  THE    MOTHER, 

«  Do  I  indeed  ?"     The  Up  of  the  boy  slightly 
curled. 

"  What  else  is  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Clarence,  not 
noticing  the  manner  of  his  companion. 

"  All  sorts  of  things.     Every  regulation  of  the         j 
college  is  to  be  broken,  unless  our  wishes  are  com-         \ 
plied  with.     Wait  a  little,  and  you  will  see  fun 
But  let  me  tell  you—it  is  determined  that  every 
student  who  does  not  join  us,  shall  be  dipped  in 
the  horse-pond.    You  had  better  consent.    I  should          i> 
hate  to  see  any  thing  done  to  you."  j 

The  eyes  of  Clarence  instantly  flashed,  and  his 
cheeks  grew  red  as  crimson. 

^  "I  would  not  consent  if  my  life  were  taken,"  said         J 

the  high-spirited  boy.    "But  never  fear.     There  is 
no  one  here  that  dare  lay  his  hands  upon  me." 
{  "  Don't  trust  to  that.    There  are  those  here  who 

j          dare  lay  their  hands  upon  any  body,  and  who  wily 
s          do  it  too.     Come,  then,  say  you  will  join  us."  J; 

"  No-— never." 
j  "  You  will  be  sorry  when  it  is  too  late."  $ 

"  1  have  no  fears." 

On  the  next  day,  the  matter  was  publicly  broach*          ;,' 
ed  during  the  college  recess,  when  the  students 
were  alone.  «[ 

"I  move,"  said  one,  "that  we  begin  on  the 
morning  after  to-morrow."  I; 


I 

<>  FRUIT.  101 

rj 

"  Second  the  motion,"  came  from  three  or  four 
roices. 
\  u  All  who  are  in  favor,  hold  up  your  hands." 

More  thar.  a  hundred  hands  were  thrown  into          I; 
!;          the  air. 

S  //      All      1_    _  1     „_    -11       __  _      1          1J  >1          • 


"  All  who  are  opposed  will  now  hold  up  their 
hands." 

A  deep  silence  followed.  Then  a  single  hand 
was  raised— -then  another,  and  another,  until  ten 
hands  were  seen  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd. — 
It  was  the  hand  of  Clarence  that  first  went  up.  j- 

A  murmur  of  discontent  ran  through  the  body 
of  students,  which  deepened  into  execrations  and 
threats.     Half  a  dozen  who  were  nearest  Clarence          < 
gathered  round  him,  with  earnest  and  half  angry 
remonstrances.     His  only  reply  was — 

"  It  is  wrong,  and  I  cannot  join  you." 

"  The  regulation  is  oppressive,"  it  was  argued.  ;J 

"  Then  leave  the  institution ;  but  do  not  violate 
its  laws." 

"  That  is  easily  said.     But  others  have  a  word 
in  that  as  well  as  ourselves.     All  here  are  not  ex-         \ 
actly  free  to  do  as  they  please." 

"It  is  better  to  endure  what  seems  oppressive, 
than  to  do  wrong." 

uWe  don't  mean  to  do  wrong!"  said  several 
voices. 

,. 


f    

102  THE    MOJHER. 

u  You  threaten  to  dip  any  one  in  the  horse-pout.  ;> 

who  does  not  join  you."  s 

s  Several  of  the  students  looked  confused,  but  on%          £ 

or  two  cried  out — 

"  Certainly  we  do ;  and  what  is  more,  our  threaU          { 
shall  be  executed." 

jj  *4  Right  or  wrong  ?"  retorted  Clarence,  with  »          J 

meaning  look  and  voice,  and  turning  on  his  heel, 
walked  away  with  a  firm  step. 

His  manner  and  words  had  their  effect.     He  had          <' 
said  but  little,  but  that  little  caused  several  who 
heard  him  to  think  more  soberly.     In  nearly  every 
little  knot  of  students  that  was  drawn  together  in 
the  various  rooms  that  night,  was  one  or  more  who 
had  become  llikewarm.     A  re-consideration  of  the 
matter  was  moved  on  the  next  day,  and  the  ques-         < 
tion  again  taken.     Instead  of  a  dozen  hands  raised         j: 
in  the  negative,  as  on  the  day  before,  there  were 
now  over  fifty.     From  that  time  little  more  was         l,j 
heard  upon  the  subject.     The  revolt  never  took         ;> 
place.  < 

So  much  for  the  influence  of  a  single  well-order 
ed,  honest  mind.  Had  the  natural  disposition  of 
Clarence  been  unchecked,  and  had  no  counter- 
Balancing  principles  been  stored  up  in  his  mind,  he  p 
would  have  been  as  eager  for  the  proposed  rebel- 
'<  lion  as  the  most  thoughtless  What  evil  result! 


i  ] 

AN    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  103 

might  have  followed  cannot  be  told.     There  were 
•!          those  in  the  institution  who  did  not  love  him  much  < 


after  this ;  but  none  who  d;d  not  feel  for  him  an 
involuntary  respect. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN     AGREEABLE     SURPRISE. 

s 


THE  incident  just  related  occurred  about  a  year 
and  a  half  after  Clarence  entered  college.     He  had, 
[<         then,  nearly  completed  his  sixteenth  year. 

About  a  week  afterwards,  and  before  they  had 
received  any  communication  from  their  son,  men 
tioning  the  circumstance,  Mr.  Hartley  handed  his 
wife  a  letter.     Its  contents  were  as  follows : — 

"  Mr.  James  Hartley. — 

DEAR  SIR — As  the  President  of University, 

permit  me  to  express  to  you  my  own  and  the 
thanks  of  the  whole  Faculty.  The  good  and  true 
principles  which  you  have  stored  up  in  the  mind 
of  your  son,  have  saved  us  from  the  evils  of  a  well- 
planned  resistance  of  authority  by  the  students. 
No  persuasions,  we  are  told,  could  induce  him  to 
join  with  the  rest.  Personal  violence  was  threat- 


104  THE    MOTHER.  \ 

ened,  but  this  only  made  him  adhere  more  firmly 
to  his  good  resolution.  The  consequence  was, 
that  his  conduct  opened  the  eyes  of  one  and  an 
other  to  see  the  folly  of  what  they  were  about  to 
do.  Two  parties  were  formed,  and,  before  any 
overt  act,  the  peace  party  prevailed.  We  shall 
I  ever  remember  your  son  with  admiration  and  grati- 

•  tude.     From  his  first  entrance  into  our  institution, 

ne  has  been  known  as  the  strict  observer  of  all  jts 
rules,  and  a  diligent  student.     It  is  but  just  that  his 
parents  should  know  all  this  from  us.    With  senti 
ments  of  the  highest  respect  and  regard, 
'f  I  am  yours,  &c., 

P R . 

President  of University. 

{  Tears  of  joy  gushed  to  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Hartley, 

as  she  finished  the  last  line  of  this  letter. 

"  Noble  boy !"  she  said  with  enthusiasm.  < 

"  You  are  pleased  with  the  letter,  then,"  said  her 
J  nusband,  with  assumed  gravity. 

u  O  yes !  Are  you  not  ?"  and  she  looked  nim  in 
the  face  with  surprise. 

"  Not  exactly." 

«  Why  ?" 

"  It  would  have  all  been  well  enough,  if  the  di- 
£  rection  had  not  been  wrong." 


AN   AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  105 


"  O  yes.     But  the  letter  should  have  oeen  ad- 
dressed  to  you." 


"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Was  it  not  our  son  that          \ 
acted  so  nobly  ?" 


{ 

!>  Mrs.  Hartley  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  said — 

\  "  It  is  all  right. — Are  we  not  one  ?     But  what 

would  my  efforts  have   been  without  your  wise          jj 

>         counsel  to  second  them.     I  will  never  care  for  the 
praise,  so  my  boy  does  right.    That  is  my  sweetest 

I;         reward.     This  is  indeed  a  happy  day.     You  know          <; 
how  much  anxiety  I  have  felt  for  Clarence.     His 
peculiar  temperament  is,  perhaps,  the  hardest  there 

\         is  to  manage."  { 

u  And  had  you  not  been  the  most  assiduous  and 
wisest  of  mothers,  you  never  could  have  moulded 
it  into  any  form  of  beauty." 

u  Many  an  anxious  day  and  sleepless  night  has  it  \ 
cost  me.  !  sowed  the  seed  in  tears ;  but  the  dews 
of  heaven  watered  the  earth,  and  when  the  tender  ;• 
blade  shot  forth,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  warmed 
and  strengthened  it.  Oh,  how  often  hav«  I  felt 
discouraged  !  The  selfishness  of  the  boy  was  so 
strong,  and  he  had  so  little  regard  for  order.  To 
counteract  these,  I  labored  daily,  and  almost  hourly. 
But  I  seemed  to  make  little  progress — sometimes 
all  my  efforts  appeared  fruitless.  Still,  I  perse 
vered,  and  it  has  not  been  in  vain." 


j  106  THE    MOTHER.  1; 

"  O  no.    You  have  saved  him  from  his  worst         < 
enemy,  himself."  | 

"  Henry  is  now  old  enough  for  college.     What 
shall  we  do  with  him  ?"  the  mother  said. 

li  "  Send  him  to University  with  his  brother,         s 

I  suppose.     There  is  not  a  better  institution  in  the 


country." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  be  safe  to  send  him  from 
home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hartley. 


,\ 
"  Why  not  ?" 


5  "  His  disposition  has  changed  little  since  he  was 

a  child.  He  is  still  confiding,  and  easily  led  away 
by  others.  Clarence  had  a  strong  will  and  promi- 
nent  faults,  which  could  be  attacked  vigorously; 

^          but  the  defects  of  Henry's  character  were  hard  to 
reach.     I  have  thought  much  on   the  subject  of 

jj          sending  him  to  college,  but  feel  more  and  more  re- 
luctant  to  do  so  the  nearer  the  time  comes  for 

•  making  a  decision  on  the  subject." 

;  "  We  ought  not  to  deprive  him  of  the  advantages 

of  a  good  education.    He  should  stand  side  by  side 

|j          with  his  brother  in  this  respect." 

"  True.     But  cannot  we  give  him  all  these  ad- 

\          vantages  at  a  less  risk." 

"  I  know  of  no  institution  in  this  city  •where  the 

J          same  advantages  may  be  secured  as  at  -  ." 

"  I  believe  there  is  none.     But,  should  we  look 


AN    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE. 


alone  at  this?  Will  our  child  be  safe  there?  Is 
his  character  yet  decided  enough  for  us  to  trust 
hirn  from  our  side  ?  I  think  not.  The  frankness 
with  which  Clarence  has  written  to  us  of  the  va- 

j;         rious  temptations  that  have  assailed  him  from  time          ^ 
to  time,  has  opened  my  eyes  to  the  dangers  that 
must  encompass  a  boy  like  Henry  in  such  a  place, 

5  '  I  should  not  feel  happy  a  moment  were  he  to  go 
there." 

"  Then  he  must  not  go,"  said  Mr.  Hartley,  firmly. 
"  You  have  ever  been  a  true  mother  to  our  chil 
dren,  and  your  love  has  thus  far  led  you  to  deter-  \ 

>         mine  wisely  in  regard  to  them.     Though  I  must          ;! 
own  that  I  feel  very  reluctant  to  deprive  the  boy 
of  the  advantages    of  a  thorough  college  course 
of  instruction." 

"  Have  not  my  reasons  force  in  your  mind  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hartley.     "  Do  you  not  believe  that  it          ;> 
would  be  wrong  for  us  to  jeopardize  the  spiritual 
interests  of  our  child,  in  the  eager  pursuit  of  intel 
lectual  advantages."  £ 
"  I  certainly  do.     The  latter  should  only  be  for 

J  the  sake  of  the  former.  The  intellect  should  be 
cultivated  as  the  means  of  developing  the  moral 
powers,  that  both  in  union  may  act  in  life  with 
true  efficiency.  If  all  the  higher  objects  of  educa 
tion  can  be  secured  by  keeping  our  child  at  home, 


J08  THE    MOTHER 

£  we  ought  not,  under  any  circumstances,  to  send         j 

him  away." 

"  They  may  often  be  better  secured  away  from 

\  home,  if  the  boy  have  firmness  enough  to  resist  the 

temptations  that  will  assail  him.     But  the  question 
whether  the  boy  can  so  resist,  must  be  decided  by 
the  parents  before  he  is  sent  out  to  make  his  first         s 
trial  on  the  world-arena." 

"  My  own  feeling  is,  that  we  had  better  keep 
Henry  under  our  guidance  as  long  as  it  can  be 
done.  He  is  not  a  boy  with  the  quick  intellect  of  (> 

J  Clarence,  and  will,  probably,  never  be  ambitious  to         J 

move  in  a  sphere  where  the  highest  attainments 

jj  are  required      It  would  be  much  more  agreeable 

to  him  now  to  go  to  work  in  your  store  than  to         •; 
go  to  school." 

"  And  I  shall  not  grieve  over  his  choice  of  a 
pursuit  in  life,  if  he  should  prefer  the  calling  of  a         ;• 
merchant."  <", 

5;  "  Nor  I.     Active  employment  is  the  best  for  all, 

$  and  in  choosing  a  profession  in  life,  that  should 
always  be  chosen  which  will  give  the  mind  great 
activity,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  brings  in  the 
affections  also.  The  pursuit  of  any  calling  which 
a  man  does  not  like,  can  never  result  to  his  own 
and  the  public  advantage  in  so  high  a  degree  as  it 
would  were  his  heart  in  what  he  was  da;ng.  For 


AW   AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  109 

this  reason,  we  ought  to  be  governed  very  much, 
in  deciding  for  our  children,  by  their  fitness  for  and 
preference  for  a  pursuit  in  business." 

u  Children's  preferences,  however,  do  not  always 
arise  from  any  peculiar  fitness  in  themselves,  but 
often  from  caprice." 

u  It  is  the  business  of  a  wise  parent  to  discrimi- 
nate  between  a  natural  fitness  for  a  thing,  and  a 
fleeting  preference  for  it.  The  imagination  of 
young  persons  is  very  active,  and  apt  to  throw  a 
false  light  around  that  upon  which  it  dwells." 

Many  conversations  of  a  like  nature  were  held 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,  who  finally  came  to  the          { 
determination  to  keep  Henry  at  home.     The  boy          s 
was  disappointed  at   this.     He  wanted  to  go  to 
college ;  not,  the  parents  could  easily  enough  see,          <; 
for  the  sake  of  the  superior  advantages  there  to  be 
obtained,  but  because  his  imagination  had  thrown 
a  peculiar  charm  about  a  college  life."  < 

Before  making  a  final  decision  on  the  subject/ 
Mrs.  Hartley  thought  it  right  to  bring  Clarence  into 
their  confidence.     She  wrote  him  a  long  letter  on          <i 
the  subject,  and  asked  him  to  give  his  opinion  of          £ 
the  effect  that  would  be  produced  upon  a  boy  like 
Henry,  if  introduced  among  the  students.     "  You 
know  his  disposition,"  she  said,  "and  how  he 
10 


110  THE    MOTHER. 

«!          would  be  affected  by  the  kind  of  associations  into         \ 
which  he  would  be  thrown." 

Clarence  wrote  back  immediately,  that  he  did 

not  believe  it  would  be  good  for  Henry  to  be  ex- 

jj  posed  to  the  temptations  of  a  college  life.     "  He  is 

s          too  easily  led  away  by  others,"  he  remarked.     "  I 

<J          have  noticed  more  than  a  dozen  instances,  since  I 

'/          have  been  here,  of  boys  just  like  Henry,  who  were 

innocent  and  confiding  in  their  dispositions  when 

5          they  came,  who  soon  became  so  changed  that  it         / 

made  me  sad  to  think  about  it.     There  was  one         $ 

boy  in    particular.     His    mother   came  with   him 

when  he  first  entered  college.     She  appeared  to  be 

deeply  attached  to  him,  and  he  to  her — they  both 

j>  wept  bitterly  at  parting.     She  was  a  widow,  and 

|j  he  her  only  remaining  child,  upon  whom  all  her 

•!  care,  affection  and  pride  were  lavished.     He  soon 

made  friends,  for  all  seemed  drawn  towards  him. 

j  Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  boy,  between  whom 

and  himself  the  warmest  attachment  arose,  was  as         j 
unlike  him  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine.     He  was  a 
bold,  bad  boy — full  of  life,  and  ready  to  do  almost 
s  any  thing  that  a  reckless  spirit  prompted.     In  a 

little  while,  they   were    inseparable   companions.         J; 
«!  At  the  end  of  six  months,  the  spirit  of  the  one 

seemed   to  have  been  transfused  into  that  of  the 
other.     I  almost  wonder,  sometimes,  if  the  mother         J 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  Ill 

I 

would  luow  her  son  were  they  to  meet  unex 
pectedly  I  hope  you  will  not  send  Henry  here. 
He  might  pass  through  his  course  uncontaminated, 
but  I  think  it  would  be  dangerous  to  expose  one 
\  like  him  to  so  many  temptations." 

This  letter  fully  decided  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley 


CHAPTER  XII. 

1    '    !fc  - 

GOINGINTOCOMPANY.  ',! 

\  i 

MARIEN  was  in  her  eighteenth  year,  and  yet  she 

had  been  taken  into  company  by  her  parents  but          I; 

very  little.  Her  virtues  were  all  of  a  domestic 
J  character,  and  graced  the  home  circle.  She  knew 
!•  of  little  beyond  its  pleasant  precincts.  Few  who 

saw  her,  supposed  that  she  was  over  fifteen  years 
s  of  age.  Not  that  her  mind  was  unmatured,  but 

because  her  appearance  was  girlish,  and  her  man- 
'<;  ners  simple  and  unaffected,  yet  retiring  when  stran-  j 

gers  were  present. 

|       •      "  How  old  is  Marien  ?1'  asked  Mrs.  Fielding,  who 
J         had  called  in  one  morning  to  chat  away  half  an  hour 

with  Mrs.  Hartley.  Marien  had  just  left  the  room 
;!  "  In  her  eighteenth  year,"  was  replied. 


112  THE    MOTHER. 

u  Nearly  eighteen !     Bless  me  ! — it  cannot  be." 
"Yes.     That  is  her  age." 
"  I  never  would  have  helieved  it.     Why,  she 
fooks  more  like  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen." 

"  I  don't  know.  She  doesn't  seem  so  very  young 
to  me." 

!}  "  But  why  in  the  world  do  you  keep  the  poor 

thing  back  so  ?  She  should  have  been  introduced 
into  company  two  years  ago.  I  had  no  idea  that 
she  was  so  old." 

jj  Mrs.  Fielding  had  a  daughter  only  in  her  seven- 

s          teenth  year,  who  had  been  flourishing  about  at  all 

the  balls  and  parties  for  the  past  two  seasons,  and 

J          had  now  all  the  silly  airs  and  affectations  which 

j;          a  young  miss,  under  such  circumstances,  might  be 

expected  to  acquire.    Jane  Fielding  had  met  Marien 

several  times,  on  calling  at  Mrs.  Hartley's  with  her 

s          mother,  but,  imagining  her  to  be  a  mere  child,  in 

comparison  with  herself,  she  had  treated  her  as 

s          such.     Marien  was  never  pushed  forward  by  her 

I;          mother,  and,  therefore,  the  mistake  of  Mrs.  Field- 

>     .     ing  and  her  daughter  was  not  corrected,  by  their 

own  observation. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Hart 
ley,  in  reply  to  the  remark  of  her  visiter.  "Ten 
young  ladies  go  into  company  too  early,  where 
one  goes  in  too  late  " 


GOING   INTO    COMPANY. 


113 


"  I  doubt  that.  If  you  don't  take  your  daughter 
into  polished  society  early,  she  will  never  acquire 
that  grace  and  ease  of  manner  so  beautiful  and  so 
essential." 

Involuntarily  did  Mrs.  Hartley  compare,  in  her 
own  mind,  the  forward,  chattering,  flirting  Jane 
Fielding  with  her  own  modest  child,  in  whom  all 
the  graces  of  a  sweet  spirit  shone  with  a  tempered 
yet  beautiful  lustre. 

"  I  am  more  anxious  that  my  daughter  shall  be 
a  true  woman,  when  she  arrives  at  woman's  age, 
than  an  artificial  woman,  while  a  mere  child,"  she 
could  not  help  replying. 

"  A  very  strange  remark,"  said  Mrs.  Fielding. 

"And  yet  it  expresses  my  views  on  the  subject.-9 

"  I  should  hardly  think  you  had  reflected  much 
about  it,  and  was  merely  acting  from  some  anti 
quated  notion  put  into  your  head  by  Aunt  Mary." 

"  You  err  there  very  much,  Mrs.  Fielding.  Since 
the  birth  of  my  daughter,  the  attainment  of  the  bes* 
means  for  securing  her  happiness  has  been  with  me 
a  source  of  deep  reflection.  I  have  brought  to  my 
aid  the  observations  of  my  youth  and  mature  years. 
What  I  have  seen  in  real  life  confirms  my  rational 
deductions.  I  am  well  satisfied  that  it  injures  a 
young  girl  to  throw  her  into  company  early.  It  if 
from  this  conviction  that  I  act." 
10* 


114  THE    MOTHER.  jr 

"How  can  it  injure  her?     I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know." 

u  It  injures  her  in  every  thing,  I  was  going  to 
say." 

"  Name  a  single  particular." 

"It  puts  a  woman's  head  upon  a  girl's  shoul 
ders,  to  use  a  common  saying,  while  she  lacks  the          < 
strength  to  carry  it  steadily,  but  tosses  the  feathers 
with  which  *  is  dressed  into  every  body's  face  tha* 
she  meets.'  !» 

"  O  dear !    What  a  queer  idea." 

"  And  not  only  that,  Mrs.  Fielding ;  it  exposes 
her,  before  she  has  the  intelligence  to  discriminate 
accurately  between  the  true  and  the  false,  to  the 
danger  of  forming  a  wrong  estimate  of  life  and  its 
duties — of  being  carried  away  by  a  love  of  dress          ;> 
and  show  and  mere  pleasure  taking,  while  things 
of  infinitely  more  importance  are  seen  in  an  ob-          s 
scure  light,  and  viewed  as  of  little  consequence. 
The  manners  of  a  girl  who  has  gone  into  company 
too  early  are  always  offensive  to  me.     There  is  a 
pertness  about  her  that  I  cannot  bear—a  toss  of  the 
head,  a  motion  of  the  body,  an  affected  distortion          j> 
of  the  countenance,  (I  can  call  it  nothing  else,)  that 
is  peculiarly  disagreeable." 

"  You  see  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do,  lhai  is  ai) 
I  can  say,  Mrs.  Hartley,"  replied  Mrs.  Fielding, 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  115 

little  gravely.     She  had,  that  very  morning,  felt          j 
called  upon  to  rebuke  Jane  for  the  rude  forwardness 
of  her  manners  in  company  the  evening  previous ! 

"  Perhaps  I  have  thought  more  on  the  subject 
and,  in  consequence,  observed  more  closely." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  is — perhaps  so" — was 
the  visitor's  rather  cold  reply.  s 

A  new  subject  of  conversation  was  then  started. 
While  they  still  sat  conversing,  Marien,  who  had 
gone  out  to  attend  to  something,  came  in  with  little 
Lillian  by  the  hand,  now  just  five  years  old.  Mrs. 
Fielding  looked  into  her  face  with  a  new  interest, 
observed  her  words  closely,  and  watched  evfery 


L 


motion.    Involuntary  respect,  and  even  admiration, 


were  elicited.  There  was  something  innocent  and 
like  a  child  about  her,  and  yet  this  was  so  blended 
J  with  a  womanly  grace  when  she  conversed,  that, 
in  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not  help  contrasting 
her  manner  with  the  forward,  familiar  airs  of  her 
own  daughter. 

As  Lillian  did  not  seem  very  well,  and  was  dis 
posed  to  be  fretful,  Marien  soon  took  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  Hartley  and  Mrs.  Fielding  were  J; 


again  left  alone. 

"  I  declare,  Mrs.  Hartley,"  said  the  latter,  "  it  is 
a  shame  to  keep  that  girl  back  as  you  do.  "  It  is 
unjust  to  her.  She  would  shine  in  company." 


116  THE    MOTHER 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  see  her  shine.     To  attract         jj 
much  attention  is  always  to  be  in  a  dangerous  po-         !> 
sition  for  one  so  young  and  inexperienced.     Be-         ij 
sides,  when  she  does  shine,  as  you  say,  I  wish  it 
to  be  with  a  steady  and  enduring  light — not  with         j 

;>  flickering  glare,  dazzling  but  evanescent.  Next 
winter  we  intend  taking  her  into  company  for  a 
few  times,  and,  after  that,  introducing  her  to  a  more 
extended  but  select  circle  of  acquaintances.  What  ;j 

J  we  wish  most  to  guard  against,  is  the  danger  of 
her  forming  an  attachment  too  early.  We  wish 

!;          her  heart  to  be  free  until  her  reason  is  matured, 
and  her  judgment  formed  upon  a  basis  of  true  prin 
ciples.     If  you  expose  a  young  girl  in  fashionable         $ 
society  to  the  love-gossip  so  prevalent  there  among         ^ 

J          certain  portions  of  it,  you  injure  her  almost  inevi 
tably.     If  she  even  make  a  good  marriage  after-         J 
wards,  it  will  be  little  more  than  a  happy  accident." 
"  I  cannot  understand  why." 
"•  The  fact  is  notorious.     A  good  husband  is  one 
who  marries  from  correct  views  of  marriage ;  and         ^ 
he  will -take  good  care  that  his  wife  is  not  one  of 
the  puppet-women  with  whom  he  has  chattered 
and   gossipped   in  the  fashionable  drawing-room.          £ 
O  no !    'He  must  have  more  sober  and  enduring 
qualities.    The  wife  and  mother,  the  nurse  in  sick 
ness,  the  companion  of  a  whole  life  will  never  ba 


jj  GOING    INTO    COMPANF.  117 

!>'  > 

thosen  by  a  sensible  man  from  one  of  these      He          < 
will  see  in  the  quiet,  thoughtful  maiden,  charms 
more  potent,  and  at  her  shrine  will  he  offer  up  the 
pure  devotion  of  an  honest  heart." 

'i  Mrs.    Hartley's    visiter   did  not  feel  very   well 

pleased  with  herself  or  her  daughter  for  some  days 
after  this  conversation.     There  was  so  much  of 

<  truth  about  what  had  been  said,  and  truth  bearing 
upon  her  own  conduct  as  a  mother,  that  it  made 
her  uncomfortable.  But  it  was  too  late  for  her  to 
mend — the  evil  was  already  done.  The  more  she 
thought  about  the  picture  Mrs.  Hartley  had  drawn 
of  a  puppet-woman,  as  she  had  chosen  to  call  her, 
the  more  closely  did  she  perceive  that  her  own 
daughter  resembled  the  sketch^  until  she  felt  half  J 
angry  at  what  appeared  almost  too  pointed  an 
allusion.  1; 

The  next  time  that  Mrs.  Fielding  and  daughter 
called  upon  Mrs.  Hartley,  the  latter  paid  a  much 
more  respectful  attention  to  Marien  than  she  had 
ever  before  done.  She  was  surprised  to  find,  in  one  s 

|J         she  had  looked  upon  as  a  girl  too  young  for  her 
to  associate  with,  a  quiet  dignity  of  manner  and 

I;      .    womanly  tone  of  character  beyond  what  she  had          £ 
dreamed  existed.     At  first  she  rattled  on  with  her 
in  quite  a  patronizing  way,  but  before  she  left,  she 
was  rather  inclined  to  listen  than  to  talk. 


/  118  THE    MOTHER.  f. 

\  5 

J  "While  our  mammas  are  talking,  let  us  have         > 

some  musicf"  Jane  said,  during  a  pause  in  the  con-         J 
versation.     "  Are  you  fond  of  playing  ?" 

{;  "  I  am  fond  of  music,  and  always  like   good 

playing.     Come  to  the  piano — you  play  well,  1 

[j          understand.     I  shall  enjoy  your  performance  very 
much." 

Jane  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  rattled  o(F  seve 
ral  fashionable  frivolities,  in  a  kind  of  hap-hazard 
style.     Marien  was  disappointed,  and  did  not,  for         1; 
she  could  not,  praise  the  young  lady's  playing. 

jJ          She  had  learned  only  to  speak  what  she  thought,         j 
and  when  she  could  not  praise,  and  utter  the  truth, 
ehe  said  nothing. 

"  Play  something  else,"  she  said.  J 

Jane  turned  over  the  music  books  and  selected 
an  overture  that  required  a  brilliant  performer  to 
execute  it  with  any  thing  like  its  true  effect.  On  £ 
this  she  went  to  work,  with  might  and  main,  and 
got  through  in  about  ten  minutes,  much  to  the  re 
lief  of  Marien,  whose  fine  perception  of  musical 
harmonies  was  terribly  outraged. 

"Now  you  must  play,"  said  Jane,  as  she  struck 
tne  last  note,  rising  from  the  instrument. 

Marien  sat  down  and  let  her  fingers  fall  upon  the 


$          keys,  that  answered  to  their  touch  as  if  half  con 
scious. 


GOING   INTO    COMPANY.  119 

j 

"You   play   divinely!"   exclaimed  Jane,  after 
j.         Marien  had  played  a  short  piece  of  music  with  fine 

1  taste.    "Do  you  sing ?" 

"  Sometimes." 

|  "Can  you  sing 'The  Banks  of  the  Blue  Mo- 

eelle  ?' " 

"  I  believe  so."  Marien  ran  her  fingers  over  the 
£  keys,  and  then  warbled  that  sprightly  song  in  a 
$  low,  sweet  voice,  that  really  charmed  her  com- 
<  panion.  The  ease  with  which  this  was  done  sur 
prised  Jane.  It  seemed  to  cost  Marien  scarce  an 
\  elfort.  Half  a  dozen  other  songs  were  named,  and 
J;  sung  by  Marien,  who  then  asked  Jane  if  she  would 

not  sing. 

\  u  Not  after  you,"  replied  the  young  lady,  taking 

a  step  back  from  the  piano. 

Marien  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  such  a  re- 

2  mark,  and  so  she  said  nothing.    She  could  not  lavish 
false  compliments,  nor  did  she  wish  to  make  any 

!j         allusion  to  her  own  performance.     She  had  sung 

>         to  please  her  visiter,  and  had  not  a  thought  beyond 
that. 

Mrs.  Fielding  was  less  self-satisfied  than  ever  after 

j;       .  this  visit.     She  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  her 
self,  that  she  would  much   rather   her  daughter 

*t         were  more  like  Marien. 


CHAPTER  XIII.  <l 

A     PAiNFUL     BEREAVEMENT. 

THUS  far  in  her  maternal  life,  Mrs.  Hartley  had  s 
endured  all  the  pains,  cares,  anxieties,  hopes  and  J 
fears  of  a  mother,  but  neither  sorrow  nor  bereave- 

J          ment.     Her  assiduous  care  had,  thus  far,  been  re 
warded  by  the  very  best  results.     But  now  there 

jj          came  a  heart-searching  trial,  which  no  act  of  hers 

;j          could  possibly  prevent. 

On  the  day  that  Mrs.  Fielding  and  her  daughter 
called  upon  Mrs.  Hartley,  Lillian  did  not  seern  very 
well.  She  drooped  about,  and  was  quite  fretful, 
a  thing  with  her  very  unusual.  At  night  she  fell 
off  to  sleep  an  hour  earlier  than  usual.  When  Mr. 
Hartley  came  home,  and  inquired  for  his  little  pet, 
ae  was  told  that  she  was  in  bed.  He  loved  the 
child  with  great  tenderness,  and  missed  her  bright 
face  and  merry  voice.  Taking  up  a  light,  he  went 
over  to  the  chamber  where  she  slept,  and  stood 
over  her  little  bed  for  some  time,  looking  down 
upon  her  sweet  face.  While  doing  sor  Mrs.  Harl-  ;> 
ley  joined  him.  \ 

120 


, 

A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT  121  •; 

"Dear  little  thing,"  she  said,  "she  has  not  ap 
peared  well  all  day."  j 
The  father  placed  his  hand  upon  her  forehead. 
«  Why,  Anna,"  he  said,  «  she  has  a  high  fever ! 
And  listen !  how  hard  she  breathes." 

Mrs.  Hartley  laid   her  hand  against  the  child's 
cheek,  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.     Her  children          jj 
had  often  been  sick  with  fevers ;  but  never,  in  the 
ji        incipient  stage  of  the  disease,  had  she  felt  the  pe 
culiar  sensation  of  uneasiness  and  oppression  that 
followed  the  discovery  that  Lillian  was  really  sick. 
In  a  little  while  the  tea  bell  rung,  and  the  family 
gathered  around  the  table  to  partake  of  their  even- 
!>        ing  meal.     The  father  and  mother  felt  no  appetite^          ;! 

and  merely  sipped  their  tea.     Marien   was  silent 

\        from  some  cause.     Henry  and   Fanny  were   the 

only  ones  who  had  any  thing  to  say.     On  rising 

;        from  the  table,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  repaired  to 

the  chamber  to  look  at  Lillian  again.     The  child's 

fever  seemed  higher,  and  she  had  become  restless. 

She   coughed   occasionally,  and  there  was  much 

oppression  on  her  chest. 

u  I  think  we  had  better  call  in  the  Doctor,"  said 
<j        Mr.  Hartley. 

"It  may   only   be   a   temporary  indisposition, 
that  \vill  subside  before  morning,"  remarked  the 
mother. 
11 

J 


122  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Still,  it  is  better  to  be  frightened  than  hurt," 
returned  Mr.  Hartley. 

u  True.     But  suppose  we  wait  for  an  hour." 
\  At  the  expiration  of  an  hour  the  child  was  no 

better.     A  physician  was  called  in,  who  gave  some 
*t         simple  medicine,  and  said  he  would  call  in  the 
;!         morning.     The  morning  found  the  child  very  ill 
What  form  the  disease  would  ultimately  assume, 
5         the  doctor  could  not  tell ; — it  might  be  only  a  vio- 
!>         lent  catarrh,  it  might  be  some  more  malignant  dis 
ease.     A  sudden  gloom  fell  over  the  whole  house 
hold,  such  as  had  never  been  felt  before.     The         j 
5         mother  could  not  compose  herself  to  do  any  thing 

— Marien  sat  by  the  child's  bedside  nearly  all  the         c 
•J         time,  and  Mr.  Hartley  came  home  two  or  three         J 
5;         times  during  the  day.     What  alarmed  them  most 
of  all  was  the  constant  complaints  of  Lillian  that 
her  throat  pained  her,  and  the  admission  of  the 
j          doctor  that  it  was  highly  inflamed.    Even  hours         jj 
before  the  physician   declared  the  disease  to  be 
scarlet  fever,  they  were  mor  than  half  assured  that 
it  was  nothing  else. 

On   the  third   day,  aV>    their   fears   were   con-        j> 
firmed.     The  disease  began  to  assume  its  worst 
type.     The  skin  was  red  and  tumefied,  the  throat        J 
badly  ulcerated,  and   the   face   much   swollen.— 
Breathing  was  exceedingly  difficult,  and  there  was 


I  A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  123 

an  eruption  of  dark  scarlet  spots  on  the  face,  neck 
and  chest.     On  the  fifth  day,  the  little  sufferer  be- 


>  came  delirious — on  the  seventh  day  she  was  freed 
from  her  pain.  Her  pure  spirit  returned  to  the 
God  who  gave  it. 

Suddenly  as   this   terrible  affliction  had   fallen 
upon  them,  in  the"  brief  space  that  ensued  between 
the  illness  of  the  child  and  her  removal,  the  minds 
of  the  parents  had  become,  in  some  degree,  pre 
pared  for  the  result  that  followed.     Still  the  blow 
stunned  them,  and  it  was  not  until  called  upon  to         £ 
take  the  last  look  at  their  little  one,  and  to  touch 
with  their  lips  for  the  last  time  her  snowy  fore 
head,  that  they  realized  the  full  consciousness  of          £ 
what  they  had  lost.     Ah !  who  but  they  who  love 
tenderly  a  sweet,  innocent,  affectionate  child,  can 
understand  how  deep  was  the  anguish  of  their  spirits          ff 
at  the  moment  when  they*turned  away  after  taking          s 
their  last,  lingering  look  at  the  marble  features  of 
their  departed  Lillian. 

How  desolate  seemed  every  part  of  the  house 
for  days  afterwards.     Hard  as  the  mother  tried  to          jj 
bear  up  and  to  look  up  in  this  affliction,  she  had 

j;  not  the  power  to  dry  her  tears.  For  hours,  some 
times,  she  would  sit  in  dreamy  absent-mindedness, 
all  interest  in  things  surrounding  her  having  totally 
subsided. 


f<54  THE    MOTHER. 

*'  Dear  Anna,"  her  husband  ventured  to  say  to 
her  one  day,  when  he  came  home  and  fou.id  her 
in  this  state — "  Time,  the  Restorer,  cannot  do  his 
work  for  us,  unless  we  do  our  part.  You  remem 
ber  Doctor  T ,  in  whose  family  we  spent  two 

pleasant  weeks  last  summer.  He  had  a  son,  just 
about  the  age  of  Clarence — perhaps  two  years 
older — who  had  just  passed  through  his  collegiate 
course  with  distinguished  honors.  The  Doctor 
loved  that  boy  with  more  than  ordinary  tenderness. 
4  He  was  always  a  good  boy,'  he  said  to  me,  in 

?  alluding  to  his  son.  4  His  love  of  truth  was  strong, 
and  his  sense  of  honor  most  acute.  I  not  only 
loved  him,  but  I  was  proud  of  him.'  This  sor 
had  not  been  home  long,  when  he  became  ill,  and 
died.  4I  never  had  any  thing  in  my  whole  life 
that  gave  me  such  anguish  of  spirit  as  the  death 

^  of  that  boy,'  he  said,  and  his  voice  even  then  trem 
bled.  c  But,  through  the  whole  painful  scene  of 
sickness,  death  and  burial,  1  never  missed  a  pa 
tient.  I  knew  that  there  was  only  one  thing  that 
would  sustain  me  in  my  affliction ;  and  that  was, 
the  steady  and  faithful  performance  of  my  regular 
duties  in  life.  But  for  this,  I  sometime?  think  I 
could  not  have  borne  the  weight  that  was  then 

laid  upon  me.'     Dear  Anna  !  Doctor  T was  a 

true  philosopher-    for  his  was  a  high   Christian 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT. 


125 


philosophy,  that  sought  relief  from  affliction  in  the 
performance  of  duty  to  others,'* 

Poor  Mrs.  Hartley  wept  bitterly  while  her  hus 
band  was  speaking.  But  his  words  sunk  into  hei 
heart,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  suffering  severer 
pain  than  would  have  been  her  portion  if  she  had 

acted  like  Doctor  T .     From    that  time  she 

strove,  with  a  great  effort,  to  arouse  herself  from 
the  dreamy  state  into  which  she  had  fallen.  It 
was  difficult  to  perform  all  the  duties — nay,  she 
could  not  perform  them  all — that  heretofore  claim 
ed  her  attention.  For  five  years  her  daily  thought 
and  care  had  been  for  her  youngest  born,  the 
nursling  of  the  flock;  and  now  she  was  taken 
away.  For  a  time  she  struggled  to  act  upon  her 
husband's  suggestion,  but  again  sunk  down;  and 
efforts  to  elevate  her  from  this  state  of  gloomy  de 
pression  were  again  made.  She  lay  weeping,  with 
her  head  upon  her  husband's  bosom,  one  night, 
when  he  said — 

"  Anna,  dear,  would  you  like  to  have  Lillian 
back  again  ?" 

She  did  not  reply,  but  sobbed  more  violently  for 
nearly  a  minute,  and  then  grew  calm.  Her  hus 
band  repeated  his  inquiry. 

"  I  have  never  asked  myself  that  question,"  she 
answered. 
11* 


126  THE    MOTHER. 

;> 
"Think  now,  and  determine  in  your  own  mind, 

whether,  if  you  had  the  power  to  recall  her,  you          j 
would  do  so."  < 

"  I  do  not  think  I  would,"  was  murmured  half          j; 
reluctantly. 
"Why  not?" 

"  It  is  better  for  her  to  remain  where  she  is." 
"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  \ 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?     Is  she         <! 
not  now  safe  in  her  heave-nly  home  ?     Is  she  not 
loved  and  cared  for  by  angels  ?     She  can  have  no 
pain,  nor  grief,  where  she  is  gone.     She  has  es-         { 
\          caped  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow.     Ah,  my  dear         j. 
husband,  even  in  my  affliction  I  can  say,  I  am 
thankful  that,  with  her,  life's  toilsome  journey  is         J 
over — that  her  probation  has  been  short." 

"  Spoken  like  my  own  dear  wife,"  Mr.  Hartley 
\  said  with  emotion  "  I,  too,  grieve  over  the  loss, 
<;  with  a  grief  that  words  cannot  express,  but  *  would 

not  take  back  the  treasure,  now  safely  laid  up  in         \ 
heaven.     She  cannot  return  to  us,  but  we  will  go 
£          to  her.     Our  real  home  is  not  here.     A  short  time 

before  us  has  our  child  gone ;  we  will  soon  follow         > 
after,  but  not  until  all  the  duties  we  owe  to  others 
J          are  paid.     We  have  still  four  left,  and,  do  our  best, 

we  cannot  do  too  much  for  them." 
|>  a  Too  much !     Oh,  no  j  my  constant  regret  if 


A   PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  127  j 

that  1  do  too  little.  And  now  that  Lillian  has  been 
taken  away,  I  seem  to  have  lost  the  power  to  do 
even  that  little." 

w  Strive  to  think  more  of  those  that  are  left,  than 
of  the  one  that  is  gone.  No  effort  of  yours  can 
do  her  any  good,  but  every  effort  you  make  for 
those  that  still  remain,  will  add  to  their  happiness.  <; 
Yesterday,  when  I  came  home,  I  found  Fanny  sit 
ting  alone  in  the  parlor.  She  looked  very  sad. 
4  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?'  I  asked.  4  Mother 
cries  so,  and  don't  talk  to  me  like  she  did,'  she 
said,  the  tears  coming  into  her  dear  little  eyes." 

"Oh,  James,  did  she  say  that?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  And  if  you  could  have  seen  her 
face,  and  heard  the  tone  of  her  voice,  you  would 
have  grieved  to  think  how  sad  the  child's  heart  <| 
must  be.  She,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us,  have  lost 
much  in  the  death  of  Lillian.  You  know  how 
much  she  loved  the  child." 

"And  I,"  sobbed  the  mother,  "have  left  her  to 

bear  her  grief  alone.     Alas!  How  selfish  I  havo 

been  in  my  sorrow.     But  it  shall  no  longer  be. 

I  will  meet  my  children  as  a  mother  should  meet 

,|         them.     I  will  help  them  to  bear  their  loss." 

Mrs.  Hartley  met  her  family  on  the  next  morn 
ing  with  a  calmer  brow.  She  had  a  word  for  each ; 
and  that  word  was  spoken  with  an  unusual 


I 

128  THE    MOTHER.' 

5          ness  of  expression.     Fanny  looked  earnestly  into 

/  i  j  <i  I, 

her  mother's  face,  when  she  observed  the  change 
<j          and  drew  close  up  to  her  side. 

"  You  love  me,  dear  mother,  don't  you  ?"  whis-          \ 
\          pered  the  child,  close  to  her  ear. 

"  Love  you,  my  child !     O,  yes !     A  thousand 
times  more  than  I  can  tell."     And  she  kissed  her         s 
fervently.  j 

>  "  And  the  angels  in  heaven  love  Lillian,  don't 
they  ?" 

ij  "  Yes,  love,"  Mrs.  Hartley  replied  in  a  husky 

whisper,  struggling  to  keep  the  tears  from  gushing  ;| 

jl          from  her  eyes.  ;! 

>  "  I  know  the  good  angels  will  love  her,  and  J 
take  care  of  her  just  as  well  as  you  did,  mother."  !> 

;>  u  O  yes  ;  and  a  great  deal  better." 

s  "  Then  we  won't  cry  any  more  because  she  is         ^ 

gone."  $ 

$  "  Not  if  we  can  help  it,  love.     But  we  miss  her 

s          very  much."  £ 

"  Yes.     I  want  to  see  her  all  the  time.     But  1 

know  she  is  in  heaven,  and  1  won't  cry  for  her  to 

t  -  |J 

come  back." 

The  words  of  Fanny  came  near  effecting  the 
entire  overthrow  of  Mrs.  Hartley's  feelings;  but 
by  a  vigorous  struggle  with  herself,  she  remained 

s  •  j! 

s  -          * 


A   PAINFUL   BEREAVEMENT.  120 

<  calm,  and  continued  for  some  time  to  talk  with  the 
child  about  Lillian  in  heaven. 

<;  From  this  period,  the  mother's  love  for  her  chil 

dren  flowed  on  again  in  its  wonted  channels,  and 
her  care  for  them  was  as  assiduous  as  ever.     In 

ff  fact,  the  loss  of  one  caused  her  to  draw  her  arms 
more  closely  about  the  rest.  But  she  was  changed ; 

\         and  no  one  who  looked  upon  her  could  help  noting 

£         the  change.    The  quiet  thoughtfulness  of  her  coun-          $ 
tenance  had  given  place  to  a  musing1  expression,  as 
if  she  were,  in  spirit,  far  away  with  some  dearly          £ 
loved  object.     Although  her  love  for  her  children, 
and  her  anxiety  for  their  welfare,  was  increased, 

J         if  there  was  any  change,  yet  that  love  was  more          \ 
brooding  than  active  in  its  nature.     The  creative 

I;  energy  of  her  mind  appeared  to  have  suffered  a 
slight  paralysis.  The  bow  was  unbent. 

Marien  was  quick  to  perceive  this,  arid  by  the 
intuition  of  love,  to  glide  almost  insensibly  into  her 

£  mother's  place  so  far  as  Henry  and  Fanny  were 
concerned.  The  groundwork  of  home-education 
had  been  so  well  laid  by  the  mother,  that  the  sis 
ter's  task  was  not  a  difficult  one.  She  became 
Henry's  confidante  and  counsellor,  and  led  Fanny 
gently  on  in  the  acquirement  of  good  habits  and 
good  principles. 

If  to  no  one  else,  this  change  was  good  fji 


130  THE    MOTHER. 

Marien.  It  gave  her  objects  to  love  intensely,  be 
cause  their  well-being  depended  on  her  conduct  J 
towards  them,  at  an  age  when  the  heart  needs 
something  upon  which  to  lavish  the  pure  waters 
of  affection  that  begin  to  flow  forth  in  gushing 
profusion. 

Another  effect  was,  to  make  more  distant  the 
period  when  Marien  should  appear  upon  the  stage         | 
of  life  as  a  woman ;  and  this  was  no  wrong  to  the 
sweet  maiden.     When  she  did  enter  society  as  a         | 
woman,  she  was  a  woman  fully  qualified  to  act 
her  part  with  wisdom  and  prudence. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN     IMPORTANT     ERA     IN     LIFE. 

WHEN  Clarence  returned  from  college,  unscathed 
in  the  ordeal  through  which  he  had  passed,  he  en 
tered  upon  a  course  of  legal  studies.  Law  was  the 
profession  he  chose.  It  most  frequently  happens 
that  brothers,  as  they  approach  manhood,  do  not 
become  intimate  as  companions.  But  it  was  not 
so  in  the  case  of  Clarence  and  Henry.  They  were 
drawn  together  as  soon  as  the  former  returned 


?  »  AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIFE.  131  j 

j  j 

e.     This  again  tended  to  lessen  the  care  of 
Mrs.  Hartley,  for  Clarence  had  become,  in  one  \ 

sense,  his  brother's  guardian.  Instead,  now,  of  the 
constant  and  often  intense  exercise  of  mind  to 
which  she  had  been  subjected  for  years  in  the  de-  s 
termination  of  what  course  was  best  to  take  with 
her  children,  in  order  to  secure  their  greatest  good, 
ohe  was  more  their  pleasant  companion  than  their 
mentor.  Her  aim  now  was  to  secure  their  unlimit- 

J  ed  confidence,  and  this  she  was  able  to  do.  Their 
mistakes  were  never  treated  with  even  playful  ridi 
cule  ;  but  she  sympathised  earnestly  with  them  in 
every  thing  that  interested  their  minds.  This  led 
them  to  talk  to  her  with  the  utmost  freedom,  and 
gave  her  a  knowledge  of  the  exact  state  of  their 
feelings  in  regard  to  all  the  circumstances  that 
transpired  around  them. 

The  completion  of  Clarence's  twenty-first  year 

s       .  was  a  period  to  which  both  the  son  and  mother 
had  looked  with  no  ordinary  interest — but  with 
very  different  feelings.     So  important  an  era,  Mrs.          [> 
Hartley  could  not  let  pass  without  a  long  and  se-          •> 
rious  conversation  with  her  son,  or  rather  repeated 
conversations  with  him. 

;  "  From  this  time,  my  son,"  she  said  to  him*       *  <j 

u  you  are  no  longer  bound  to  your  parents  by  the 
law  of  obedience.     You  are  a  man,  and  must  act 


132 


THE    MOTHER. 


in  freedom,  according  to  reason.  Our  precepts  are 
not  to  be  observed  because  we  give  them,  but  are 
to  be  observed  because  you  see  them  to  be  true. 
Heretofore,  your  parents  have  been  responsible  for 
your  conduct  to  society,  our  country,  and  the  Lord. 
But  now,  you  alone  are  responsible.  Upon  the 
way  in  which  you  exercise  the  freedom  you  now 
enjoy,  will  depend  your  usefulness  as  a  man,  and 
your  eternal  state  hereafter.  You  stand,  in  perfect 
freedom,  between  the  powers  of  good  and  evil- 
heaven  and  hell— with  the  ability  to  turn  yourself 
to  either.  You  are  free  to  choose,  this  day,  whom 
you  will  serve.  Choose,  my  son,  with  wisdom — 
let  your  paths  be  those  of  peace  and  pleasantness 
I  have  never  fully  explained  to  you  what  I  am  now 
anxious  for  you  to  comprehend.  It  is  this  : — 

"  The  Lord  holds  no  human  being  responsible 
for  his  acts,  until  he  has  arrived  at  adult  )  ears, 
when  his  reasoning  faculties  are  fully  developed, 
and  he  can  discriminate,  in  his  own  mind,  clearly 
between  good  and  evil.  Up  to  this  time,  a  wise 
provision  is  made  for  him  in  the  love,  guidance 
and  protection  of  parents  or  masters,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  restrain  all  his  hereditary  evil  tendencies, 
and  to  store  his  mind  with  good  principles,  to  serve 
him  when  the  time  of  pupilage  is  ended,  and  he 
cones  to  act  for  himself.  Heretofore  I  have  ful'y 


£  AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIFE.  133 

explained  to  you  man's  present  state  and  condition. 
He  is  not  in  the  order  in  which  he  was  created  — 
His  will  and  his  understanding  are  not,  as  they 
were  at  first,  in  unison.  His  will  is  thoroughly 
corrupted,  but  his  understanding  is  yet  capable  of 

I;         seeing  the  truth — of  rising  even  into  the  light  of 

I  heaven.  If  we  were  to  follow  the  promptings  of 
our  will,  or  natural  affections,  we  would  inevita- 

s  bly  sink  into  the  indulgence  of  all  evil  passions ; 
but  we  are  not  only  gifted  with  the  power  of  see 
ing  what  is  fair  and  true,  but  our  freedom  is  so 
fully  preserved  by  the  Lord,  that  we  can  compel 

*t  ourselves  to  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  truth. 
As  soon  as  we  begin  to  do  this,  we  begin  to  gain  a 

J  real  power  over  our  hereditary  evil  tendencies. 
No  obedience  to  parents  can  possibly  remove  from 
our  minds  a  naturally  corrupt  principle;  it  will 
only  keep  it  in  quiescence  until  we  come  to  years 
of  freedom  and  rationality ;  after  that  it  must  be 
removed  by  our  shunning  its  indulgence  in  act  or 
intention,  as  a  sin  against  God.  You  see,  then, 
that  now  your  parents'  work  has  ended,  yours  has 
begun." 

u  Don't  say  your  work  is  ended,  my  mothei," 

Clarence  said  with  much  feeling,  and  an  expression 

of  deep  concern  upon  his  face.     "It  cannot  be, 

As  before,  your  advice  and  counsel  must  be  good 

12 


f  ! 

s 

\  > 

13*  THE    MOTHER.  > 

£  •  ^ 

I  will  not  believe  that  I  am  no  longer  to  obey  you 

•j  —Ono!  no!" 

"  In  a  supreme  sense,  Clarence,  the  lord  is  your 

;>  father,  and  his  Church  your  mother ;  and  to  them 

alone  are  you  now  required  to  give  supreme  obe 
dience,  and  to  love  with  your  highest,  purest,  and 

j  best  affections.     But  that  need  not  cause  you  to 

!;  love  your  natural  father  and  mother  the  less.    You 

say  truly,  that  our   work  is  not  yet  done.     Our 

;>  counsel  will  still  be  given,  but  you  must  not  follow 

it  because  we  have  given  it,  but  because,  in   the 
light  of  your  own  mind,  you  perceive  that  it  ac- 

J  cords  with  the  truth;  for  you  must  never  forget 

?  that  according  to  your  own  deeds  will  you  be  justi 

fied  or  condemned.     We  will  not  love  you  less? 

>  nor  be  less  anxious  for  your  welfare ;  but,  being  a 

man,  you  must  act  as  a  man,  in  freedom  according 

\  to  reason."  \ 

s  The  recollection  of  this  conversation  often  made 

Clarence  sigh. 

"  Ah !"  he  would  sometimes  say  to  himself, — 
u  man's  estate  is  not,  after  all,  so  desirable  a  thing 
to  attain.  It  was  much  easier  to  lie  upon  my  mo- 

',  ther's  bosom,  than  it  is  to  fight  my  way  through 

j  Life,  Lmid  its  thousand  temptations." 

{  The  formal  and  serious  manner  in  which  Mrs.         *> 

( 

Hartley  had  conversed   w'th  Clarence,  caused  aU         < 

I      ' I 


AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIFE.  135 

that  she  said  to  be  deeply  impressed  upon  his  mind. 

,>  He  Dondered  it  for  weeks.  The  effect  was  good, 
for  it  saved  him  from  the  thoughtless  tendency  to 

I  mere  pleasure-seeking  into  which  young  men  are 
toe  apt  to  fall,  on  finding  themselves  entirely  free 
from  the  shackles  of  minority.  He  saw  clearly 
and  felt  strongly  the  responsibility  of  his  position. 
But,  accompanying  this  perception,  was  an  earnest 
ly  formed  resolution  to  overcome  in  every  tempta 
tion  that  might  assail  him. 

"  I  can  conquer,  arid  I  will,"  he  said,  in  the 
confidence  that  he  felt  in  the  more  than  human 
strength  that  those  receive  who  fight  against  evil. 

It  was  not  long  before  life's  conflicts  began  in 
earnest  with  him;  but  it  is  not  our  business  to 
speak  of  them,  further  than  to  say,  that  he  was 
subjected  to  strong  trials,  to  severe  temptations,  to 

5  cares  and  anxieties  of  no  ordinary  kind,  and  that 
the  remains  of  good  and  truth  stored  up  in  his 
mind  by  his  mother  saved  him.  As  a  child,  his 
predominant  evil  qualities  were  a  strong  self  will, 
and  extreme  selfishness.  These  had  been  reduced 
by  the  mother's  care  and  watchfulness,  into  a  state 
of  quiescence.  In  manhood,  they  re-appeared,  and 
long  and  intense  was  the  struggle  against  them, 
before  they  yielded  themselves  subject  to  more 
heavenly  principles. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

s 

HAPPY     CONSUMMATIONS. 

MARIEN  HARTLEY  was  twenty-two  years  of  age 
when  she  first  began  to  attract  attention  in  society. 
The  impression  she   made  was   a   decided    one. 
People  talked  about  her  for  a  time  as  a  new  won 
der.     Her  grace,  her  intelligence,  her  accomplish 
ments,  and,  not  least,  her  beauty,  won  the  universal 
admiration.     She  was  quickly  surrounded  by  the         ;» 
butterflies  of  fashion,  but  they  found  themselves  at 
a  loss  how  to  be  truly  agreeable.     If  they  flattered 
her,  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  them ;  if  they 
complimented  her  upon  her  singing,  or  dancing^ 
she  only  smiled  quietly.     In  fact,  all  their  usual         !» 
arts  failed.     Some  called  her  cold — others  said  she         J 
was  as  proud  as  a  duchess ;  while  others  reported 
that  her  heart  was  engaged  to  an  absent  lover. 

Unconscious  of  all  this  agitation  created  by  her 
appearance,  Marien  continued  in  the  affectionate         £ 

I;  performance  of  her  home  duties,  occasionally  ming 
ling  in  society,  less  from  feeling  drawn  thither, 
than  because  she  believed  that  she  owed  something 

s          to  the  social  as  well  as  to  the  family  circle.  \ 

I  I 

L, 


HAPPY    CONSUMMATIONS. 

Once  more  was  the  liveliest  maternal  interest 
!>         awakened  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Hartley.     Now 
;>         was  the  most  critical  period  in  her  daughter's  life. 
Her  heart  could  not  long  remain  uninterested  ;  but 
;;         whose  hand  should  touch  the  precious  fountain, 
and  unseal  its  pure  waters  ?    That  was  the  anxious 
question. 

Evening  visiters  were  becoming  more  and  more 
Ij         frequent.     On  every  new  appearance  of  Marien  in 
company,  would  some  new  acquaintance  call. — • 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,  unlike  most  parents,  who, 
very  considerately  remembering  how  it  was  with          ^ 
j;         themselves,  "leave  the  young  people  alone,"  al-          ;> 
ways  made  it  a  point  to  be  present,  with  other 
members  of  the  family,  when  any  visiter  called  to          J 
spend  an  evening.     Clarence,  who  was  fully  in  his 
mother's  confidence,  remained  at  home  a  great  deal 
during  these  occasions,  in  order  to  swell  the  parlor          ',» 
circle,  and  to  add  to  the  pleasures  of  conversation, 
music,  or  other  modes  that  might  be  resorted  to 
for  passing  an  hour. 

This  way  of  doing  things  was  not  at  all  relished 
by  some  who  were  all  eagerness  to  secure  the          { 
favor  of  Marien.     Among  those  who  occasionally 
dropped  in,  was  a  young  man  who  generally  spent          $ 
more  time  in  conversing  with  the  mother  than  with 

the  daughter.     If  his  design  had  been  first  to  con- 
12* 


138  THE    MOTHER.  I 

\  ciliate  Mrs.  Hartley,  his  plan  was  certainly  a  good 
one.  But  he  was  innocent  of  any  design  further 
than  to  gain  opportunities  for  observing  closely  the 
character  and  disposition  of  Marien.  He  had  am 
ple  means  for  supporting  a  wife,  and  had  been 

!;•  looking  about  him  for  one  at  least  a  year.  The 
lirst  impression  made  upon  him  by  Marien  was 
favorable.  He  was  not  struck  by  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments  half  so  much  as  by  the  sentiments 
whicn  he  occasionally  heard  fall  from  her  lips. 
The  way  in  which  her  parents  guarded  her,  he 

J         saw  and  understood  at  once,  and  this  strengthened          ; 
his  belief  that  she  was  a  precious  treasure  for  him 
who  could  win  her  heart. 

While  he  observed  her  at  a  distance,  as  it  were? 

jj         others  were  clustering  around  her,  and  using  every          j; 
art  to  gain  her  favor.     But,  even  while  they  were 
pressing  for  attention,  her  eye  was  wandering  away 

;  to  him,  and  often  the  words  they  uttered  were  un 
heard  in  her  recollection  of  sentiments  which  he 
had  spoken.  Why  this  was  so,  Marien  did  not  ask 
herself.  She  did  not  even  notice  the  fact.  When 
the  young  man,  at  last,  began  to  make  advances,  ^ 
she  received  them  with  an  inward  pleasure  unfelt  ;| 

{          before.    This  did  not  escape  the  mother's  watchful 

\         eye.     But  she  had  no  word  to  say  in  objection.         ; 
Long   before   arty  serious   inroad    upon   Marien'a 

S 


HAPPY   CONSUMMATIONS.  139 

had  been  made,  father,  mother,  and  bro 
ther  were  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  young 
man's  family,  standing  and  character.  They  were 
unexceptionable. 

When  he,  finally,  made  application  for  her  hand, 
he  received,  promptly,  this  answer : — 

"  Take  her,  and  may  she  be  to  you  as  good  a 
j,        wife  as  she  has  been  to  us  a  child." 

Marien  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  when  she 
became  a  wedded  wife.  Many  wed  younger,  but 
few  as  wisely. 

The  next  event  of  interest  in  the  life  of  Mrs. 
Hartley,  was  the  marriage  of  Clarence.  In  this 
£  matter  she  was  careful  to  leave  her  son  in  the 
most  perfect  freedom.  Although  from  principle 
she  did  this,  she  was  not  without  great  concern  on  5! 
the  subject,  for  she  well  knew  that  his  whole  char 
acter  would  be  modified  for  good  or  evil  by  his 
wife.  It  is  enougn  to  say,  that  Clarence  chose 
wisely 


CHAPTER   JCVI. 

CONC  LU  S ION. 

I;  s 

HAVING  brought  our  readers  to  this  point,  not, 
we  iiope,  without  profit  to  themselves,  we  find  that  .s 
£  we  have  little  more  to  add.  The  mother's  untiring 
devotion  to  her  children  has  not  been  in  vain. — 
The  good  seed  sown  in  their  minds  has  produced 
a  pleasant  harvest.  \ 

We  could  present  a  strong  and  painful  contrast  ;! 
in  the  results  attendant  upon  the  course  pursued 
by  Mrs.  Fielding ;  but  we  will  not  do  so.  It  would 
be  of  little  use  to  throw  dark  shades  upon  the  pic 
lure  we  have  drawn.  There  are  few  who  reaa 
this,  who  cannot  look  around  and  see  the  baleful 
consequences  that  have  followed  neglect  and  in 


difference  such  as  were  manifested  by  Mrs.  Field 
ing  towards  her  children.    The  instances  are,  alas 
too  numerous. 


In  closing  this  volume,  the  author  would  remark 
to  those  who  may  feel  disappointed  w  pot  findinj 
it  so  full  of  incident  ?n'J  description  V  *Vy  bao 
140 


"VTI 
2 


\  CONCLUSION.  141 

expected,  that  to  have  given  it  a  lighter  character 

<          *ould  have  required  the  sacrifice  of  much  that  he 

wished  to  say.     The  subject  is  one  so  full  of  in- 

.erest  to  a  certain  class,  that  no  charms  of  fiction 

were  required  to  hold  their  attention.     To  have 

extended  our  book  further,  or  to  have  introduced 

a  greater  variety  of  scenes,  would  have  occupied 

the  time  and  attention  of  the  reader  to  very  little 

purpose.     To  those  who  have  read  aright,  enough 

j;          nas  been   said — volumes  would  do  no  good  to 

\\          those  who  have  not. 


J.   W.   BRADLEY' S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


of 


BY  MISS  V.  F.  TOWNSEND. 


Large  12mo.,  with  fine  steel   Portrait  of   the  Author. 
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Muriel. 

To  Arthur,  Asleep. 

The  Memory  Bells. 

Mend  the  Breeches. 

The  Sunshine  after  the  Rain. 

My  Picture. 

Little  Mercy  is  Dead. 

The  Old  Letters. 

The  Fountain  tfery  Far  Down. 

The  Rain  in  the  Afternoon. 

The  Blossom  in  the  Wilderness. 

The  Mistake. 

October. 

Twice  Loving. 

The  Old  Mirror. 


NOTICES 


The  Country  Graveyard. 

Now. 

The  Door  in  the  Heart. 

My  Step-Mother. 

The  Broken  Threat. 

Glimpses  Inside  the  Cars. 

The  Old  Stove. 

The  Old  Rug. 

The  "  Makiug-Up." 

Next  to  Me. 

"Only  a  Dollar." 

The  Temptation  and  the  Triumph. 

Extracts  from  a  Valedictory  Poem. 

December. 


OF    THE    PRESS. 

We  might  say  many  things  in  favor  of  this  delightful  publication,  but 
we  deem  it  unnecessary.  Husbands  should  buy  it  for  their  wives,  loven 
should  buy  it  for  their  sweethearts,  friends  should  buy  it  for  their  friends 
—a  prettier  or  more  entertaining  gift  could  not  be  given — and  everybody 
•hould  buy  it  for  themselves.  It  ought  to  be  circulated  throughout  tbe 
land.  It  carries  sunshine  wherever  it  goes.  One  such  book  is  worth 
•aore  than  all  the  "  yellow-covered  trash"  ever  published.— Godeu'g 
Lady's  Book. 

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To    tlie    Pure    all    things    are    Pure." 


WOMAN  AND  HER  DISEASES 

FROM 

THE  CRADLE  TO  THE  GRAVE: 

Adapted  exclusively  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of 
her  System,  and  all  the  Diseases  of  her  Critical  Periods. 

BY  EDWARD  H.  DIXON,  M.D., 

Editor  of  "  The  Scalpel,"  Consulting  and  Operating  Surgeon,  author  of  a  Treatise  on  I1 

cj                    the  "  Causes  of  the  Early  Decay  of  American  Women,"  &c.,  &c.,  and  formerly  ij 

')                                         Physician  to  the  New  York  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum.  <j 

I1         Sent  by  Mail  on  receipt  of  the  price,  -----     $1.00  j 

I;                                        —~ ;> 

;!                           NOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS.  Ij 

<J              "WOMAN  AND  HER  DISEASES,  from  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave,  adapted  ex-  •' 

['           clusiveiy  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of  her  System,"  etc.     By  J> 

«)           Edward   H.  Dixon,  M.D.     This  work,   though  pertaining  to  subjects,  the  i1 

^          discussion  of  which  has  hitherto  been  almost  exclusively  confined  to  the  j> 

medical  profession,  contains  not  a  line  nor  a  word  calculated  to  awaken  I' 

impure  emotion,  but  much  to  strengthen  purposes  of  virtue,  aud  at  the  jl 

same  time  to  remove  tlie  ignorance  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  pre-  Ij 

vailing   licentiousness.     It  has  received  the  highest  commendation  from  S 

men  whose  opinions  have  great  weight  with  the  friends  of  morality  and  Ij 

religion. — New  York  Tribune.  (>, 

Tlie  chapter  on  the  consequences  and  treatment  of  self-abuse,  is  one  of  I1 

the  most  earnest  appeals  we  have  ever  read,  and  we  believe  will  save  £ 

thousands  from  an  untimely  grave.     That,  on  abortion,  entitles  Dr.  Dixon  ' 

",'          to  the  thanks  of  every  humane   person  in  the  community. — Merchants'  <J 

Ij           Ledger,  X.  Y.  [> 

The  tl  anks  of  the  public  are  due  to  Dr.  Dixon,  both  for  the  matter  and  ij 

Ij          the  manner  of  it.     Every  mother  should  read  it,  and  then  present  its  con-  J> 
'           tents  to  her  children. — Anglo-American. 

{              Dr   Dixon  has  lent  a  deep  interest  to  his  work,  and  is  doing  good  service  [> 

ij          by  its  publication. — Boston  Medical  and  Surgical  Journal.  ij 

W«  are  -sure  we  are  doing  a  public  benefit,  by  commending  to  universal  *J 

i)          notice  this  work,  imparting  as  it  does  a  vast  deal  of  information  of  vital  <> 

J>           Importance  to  every  one.     Medical  and  other  journals  of  the  highest  re-  ', 

f          puti'  in  this  country,  have  spoken  of  it  in  the  most  exalted  terms,  and  Ij 

\          earnestly  recommend  its  introduction  into  every  family. — New  Bedford  s 
<j          Eotning  Bulletin. 

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r 


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THE 

Satth  Jitlbs  0f  tjje 

COMPRISING 

Descriptions  of  the   different  Battles,  Sieges,   and 
other  events  of  the  War  of  Independence,  inter 
spersed  with  Characteristic  Anecdotes. 

Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings,  and  a  fine  Mezzo 
tint  Frontispiece.  By  THOMAS  Y.  KHOADS.  Large 
12mo.,  336  pages.  Price  $1.00. 


The  Sergeant  and  the  Indians. 

Burning  of  the  Gaspee. 

The  Great  Tea  Riot. 

The  First  Prayer  in  Congress 

Battle  of  Lexington. 

Fight  at  Concord  Bridge. 

Capture  of  Ticonderoga. 

Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

Attack  on  Quebec. 

Attack  on  Sullivan's  Island. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Firmness  of  Washington. 

Capture  of  General  Lee. 

Captur  e  of  General  Prescott. 

General  Prescott  Whipped. 

Battle  of  Trenton. 

Battle  of  Princeton. 

General  La  Fayette. 

Battle  of  Brandy  wine. 

Battle  of  Germantown. 

Battle  of  Red  Bank 


Burgoyne's    Invasion  —  Battle   of 

Bennington. 

Heroic  Exploit  of  Peter  Francisco. 
Andrew  Jackson. 
Siege  of  Yorktown— Surrender  of 

Cornvvallis. 
George  Rogers  Clarke. 
Death  of  Captain  Biddle. 
Patriotism  of  Mother  Bailey. 
The  Dutchman  and  the  Rake. 
Simon  Keuton. 
The  Murder  of  Miss  McCre*. 
Massacre  at  Wyoming. 
Treason  of  Arnold. 
Patriotism  of  Elizabeth  Zan« 
Stony  Point. 
John  Paul  Jones. 
Battle  of  King's  Mountain. 
Burning  of  Colonel  Crawford 
Battle  of  the  Cowpens. 
Baron  Steuben. 
Mrs.  Bozarth. 


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I    3NT    JD    I  -A. 

AND    THB 

T3STJDIA.3ST      3^T  TJ  T  I  3ST  "2" . 

f  COMPRISING   A   COMPLETB 

HISTORY  OF  HINDOOSTAN, 

\          SROM  THE  EARLIEST  TIMES  TO  THE  PRESENT  DAT,  WITH  j? ULL 
t  PARTICULARS  OF  THE  RECENT 

MUTINY   IN   INDIA. 

ILLUSTRATED   WITH    NUMEROUS    ENGRAVINGS, 

BT 

HENRY  FREDERICK  MALCOLM. 


This  work  is  now  ready  for  Canvassers  and  Agents.  It  has  > 

been  gotten  up  with  great  care,  and  may  be  relied  on  as  COMPLETB  '<> 

and  ACCURATE;  making  one  of  the  most  THRILLINGLY  INTEREST-  < 

ING  books  published.  It  contains  Illustrations  of  ALL  THE  GREAT  s 

BATTLES  AND  SIEGES,  making  a  large  12ino.  volume  of  about  450  [> 
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We  make  the  largest  discounts  to  Agents.  Send  for  our  list  of  s 

books,  including  some  of  the  most  popular  and  salable  books  pub  ;> 
lished. 

NOTICES   OF   THB  PRESS. 

The  tragical  events  of  the  war  will  not  only  be  read  with  thrilling  in  <J 

lerest,  but  the  history  of  India  will  be  studied  by  all  classes.     The  wor  \ 

before  us  is  well  calculated  to  impart  the  knowledge  of  India  and  the  Re  ( 

belliou,  which  is  sought  by  those  whose  curiosity  has  been  excited,  as  i'  / 

gives,  in  one  volume,  a  popular  history  of  the  country  at  different  epochs  <J 

—Rural  New  Yorker.  J 

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<  A    BOOK    OF    STARTLING    INTEREST. 

THE 


\  inn  AND  Til  DEMON 

BY   T.    S.    ARTHUR. 
<;     A  handsome  12mo.  volume, Price  $1.0C 


In  this  exciting  story  Mr.  Arthur  has  taken  hold  of  the  reader's 
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absorbed  to  the  end  of  the  volume.  The  book  is  one  of  START- 
LING  INTEREST.  Its  lessons  should  be 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  EVERY  MOTHER. 

Onward,  with  a  power  of  demonstration  that  makes  conviction  a         ]> 
necessity,  the  author  sweeps  through  his  subject,  fascinating  at 
every  step.     In  the  union  of 

THRILLING  DRAMATIC  INCIDENT, 

with  moral  lessons  of  the  highest  importance,  this  volume  stands         ,j 
forth  pre-eminent  among  the  author's  many  fine  productions.  «J 

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spirit  which  pervades  all  his  writings. — N.  Y.  Chronicle. 

.This  volume  is  among  his  best  productions,  and  worthy  of  a  place  OB 
every  centre-table. — Clarion,  Pa.,  Banner.  ff 

This  is  a  roost  fascinating  book,  one  which  the  reader  will  find  it  quit  ,' 

bard  to  lay  aside  without  reading  to  the  last  page. — Albany,  N.  Y.,  Jour  ff 

nd  Courier. 


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J        , J 

!   TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR-ROOM,  ! 

AND 


This  powerfully-written  work,  one  of  the  best  by  its  popular  Author, 

i         IB  meeting  with  immense  sales, — ten  thousand  copies  having  been  ordered  "! 

?         within  a  month  of  publication.    Young  men  wishing  to  do  good,  and  at  j! 

?         the  same  time  to  make  money,  will  find  a  rare  chance  in  selling  this  book,  ji 

!'         It  is  a  large  12mo.,  of  240  pages,  Illustrated  with  a  beautiful  Mezzotint  En-  ^ 

!|         graving,  by  Sartain  ;  printed  on  fine  white  paper,  and  bound  in  the  best  |! 

I;         English  muslin,  gilt  back.    Price  $1.00.  S 

!'  The  following  are  a  few  of  the  many  Notices  of     .  '! 

S  the   Press.  t 

~ts  scenes  are  painfully  graphic,  and  furnish  thrilling  arguments  for  tLe  S 
[J         lemperance  cause. — Norton's  Literary  Gazette. 
,)             Powerful  and  seasonable. — N.  Y.  Independent. 

],  Written  in  the  author's  most  forcible  and  vigorous  style. — Lehigh  Valley  < 

^         Times.  ', 

In  the  "  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room, "  some  of  the  consequences  of  tavern-  ',' 

!>         keeping,   the  "sowing  of  the  wind"  and   "reaping  the  whirlwind,"  are  l! 

<j          followed  by  a  "  fearful  consummation,"  and  the  "  closing  scene,"  present-  \> 
''         ing  pictures  of  fearful,  thrilling  interest. — Am.  Courier. 

There  is  no  exaggeration  in  these  pages — they  seem  to  have  been  filled  {* 
up  by  actual  observation. — Philadelphia  Sun. 

We  have  read  it  with  the  most  intense  interest,  and  commend  it  as  a  work  \> 

calculated  to  do  an  immense  amount  of  good. — Lancaster  Express.  <\ 

We  wish  that  all  lovers  of  bar-rooms  and  rum  would  read  the  book.     It  \< 

will  pay  them  richly  to  do  so. — N.  Y.  Northern  Blade.  •' 

It  is  sufficient  commendation  of  this  little  volume  to  say  that  it  is  from  (; 

the  graphic  pen  of  T.  S.  Arthur,  whose  works  will  be  read  and  re-read  <] 

long  after  he  has  passed  away.     He  is  as  true  to  nature,  as  far  as  he  afc-  [> 

tempts  to  explore  it,  as  Shakspeare  himself;  and  his  works,  consequently  <J 
k»ve  an  immense  popularity. — New  Haven  Palladium. 

There  »re  many  scenes  unequaled  for  pathos  and  beauty.     The  death  <rf  !' 
iUle  Mary  can  scarcely  be  surpassed. — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 


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DR.  LIVINGSTONE'S 

TRAVELS  AND  RESEARCHES    | 

OF   SIXTEEN  YEARS  IN  THE 
WILIDS    OF    SOTJTH 


This  is  a  work  of  thrilling  adventures  and  hair-hreadth  escapes  amoag 

S 


•avage  beasts  and  more  savage  men.     Dr.  Livingstone  was  alone  and  an-          1> 


'I     aided  by  any  white  man,  traveling  with  African  attendants,  among  different  ,- 

j!     tribes  and  nations,  all  strange  to  him,  and  many  of  them  hostile,  and  alto-  ^ 

£     gether  forming  the  most  astonishing  book  of  travels  the  world  has  ever  seen.  f 

',     All  our  Agents  acknowledge  it  is  the  most  salable  book  published.     The  !> 

S     most  liberal  commission  made  to  Agents,  in  small  or  large  quantities.  \> 

!'         4®"  Copies  sent  by  Mail,  free,  on  receipt  of  the  price,  $1.25.  '' 

NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS 

S         It  abounds  in  descriptions  of  strange  and  wonderful  scenes,  among  a  (| 

'<.'     people  and  in  a  country  entirely  new  to  the  civilized  world  ;  and  altogether  £ 

f     we  regard  it  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  books  issued  within  the  past  ^ 
<\     year. — Daily  Democrat,  Patterson,  New  Jersey. 

S         The  subjects  treated  of  are  new  and  strange,  and  take  a  deep  hold  upon  ^ 

<      popular  feeling.     The  book  is  having  a  great  run,  and  will  be  read  by  *  <! 

\     every  reading  man,  woman  and  child,  in  this  as  well  xs  other  lands.—  \ 

i     Ashtatmla  (Ohio)  Telegraph.  < 

^         Those  of  our  readers  who  would  have  a  delightful  book  for  reading  at  'f 

^     any  hour,  will  not  be  disappointed  in  this  work. —  United  States  JourmiL.  { 

[)         This  interesting  work  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  oue.     Its  inter-  {> 

}      esting  pages  of  adventures  are  full  of  instruction  and  amusement. — Att-  >J 
burn  American. 

With  truth  we  can  say,  that  seldom  is  presented  to  the  reading  public  a  s 

work  containing  such  a  vast  amount  of  solid  instruction  as  the  one  ia  ',< 

question.     The  volume  is  handsomely  illustrated,  and  presents  that  uniqvA  <•] 
appearance  of  exterior  for  which  Mr.  Bradley's  publications  die  noted.- 

Family  Magazine.  Jj 

JO-  CAUTION.— The  attention  of  the  Publisher  has  been  called  to  spu.  S 

<•      rious  editions  of  this  work,  put  forth  as  "  Narratives  of  Dr.  Livingstoue'i  \ 

(     Travels  in  Africa."     Ours  is  the  only  cheap  American  edition  of  this  great  J> 

i     work  published,  and  contains  all  the  important  matter  of  the  English  jl 
/      edition,  which  is  sold  at  six  dollars. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia.  ] 


J.   W.   BEADLEY'S    LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 

LIFE    AND    EXPLORATIONS  j 

OF  '  ;> 

DR.  E.  K.  KANE, 

ANI>  OTHER  DISTINGUISHED  jl 

AMERICAN   EXPLORERS, 

INCLUDING         i  [, 

LEDYARD,  WILKES,  PERRY,  etc.,  etc. 

JONTAININQ    NARRATIVES  OF   THEIR   RESEARCHES  AND  ADVEN-      |j 
fURES  IN  REMOTE  AND  INTERESTING  PORTIONS  OF  THE  GLOBE.        < 

BY  SAMUEL  M,  SMICKER,  A,M, 

',  Author  of  "  Court  an-J  Eeiga  of  Catharine  II.,"  "Emperor  Nicholas  I.,"   "  Life  «f       \< 

Alexander  Hamilton,"   "  Arctic  Explorations  and  Discoveries,"   "  Memoir  of 

Thomas  Jefferson,"    "  Memorable  Scenes  in  French  History,"  etc.  .J 

4        With  a  fine  Mezzotint  Portrait  of  Dr.  Kane,  in  his  Arctic  Costume.    £ 


This  work  brings  within  the  reach  of  all  the  admirers  of  our  great     l> 


Explorers  (of  whom  Dr.  KANE,  although  last,  is  not  least,)  the  most 
important  matter  contained  in  books  costing  ten  times  the  amount. 
AGENTS  and  CANVASSERS  by  taking  this  book,  with  our  new  work 
of  DR.  LIVINGSTONE'S  EXPLORATIONS  IN  AFRICA,  can  make  more 
money  in  the  same  time  than  on  any  other  books  now  published. 
Retail  price,  $1.00.  Specimen  copies  sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  the 
price.  ^ 

NOTICES    OF    THE   PEESS. 

From  the  many  favorable  notices  of  "  Smucker's  Life  of  Dr.  Kane 
and  other  American  Explorers,"  we  take  the  following : 

The  author  has  here  given  us  a  valuable  addition  to  American  Biographi« 
cal  literature. — Godey's  Lady's  Book. 

A  terse,  useful  and  interesting  work.  It  is  a  delightful  volume. —  U.S  Jour, 

It  will  become  a  household  volume. — Chicago  Tribune. 

The  portrait  of  Dr.  Kane  contained  in  this  volume  is  a  splendid  steel  en- 
rraving,  and  may  be  relied  upon  as  a  correct  likeness,  as  we  ourselvet 
K»ve  frequently  seen  the  original,  and  find  the  resemblance  mo&t  striking 
~~Am.  Free  Pi  «.?.<?,  Boston,  Pa. 

Worthy  of  a  place  on  any  centre-table,  or  on  the  shelves  of  any  library 
— Ttvnton  Gazette. 

For  family  libraries,  this  book  is  Just  the  thing. — Arthur's  Magazine. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J.   W.   BKADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


fjtetra 


I 


WITH    FINE    COLORED    PLATES. 


Large  12mo.,  336  pages,   .........  $1.00 


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\                                   CONTENTS  .J 

r,     Baiting  for  an  Alligator  —  Morning  among  the  Rocky  Mountains  —  En-  ^ 

S  counter  with  Shoshonees  —  A  Grizzly  Bear  —  Fight  and  Terrible  Result  (| 

f  —  Fire    on    the    Mountains  —  Narrow    Escape—  The    Beaver    Region—  r1 

<J  Trapping  Beaver  —  A  Journey  and  Hunt  through  New  Mexico  —  Start  f> 

\  for  South  America  —  Hunting  in  the  Forests  of  Brazil  —  Hunting  on  the  ^ 

<J  Pampas  —  A  Hunting  Expedition  into    the    Interior  of  Africa  —  Ghase  ^ 

jj  of   the  Rhinoceros—  Chase  of  an  Elephant—  The  Roar  of  the  Lion—  l'> 

<}  Herds  of   Wild    Elephants—  Lions    attacked    by    Bechuanas—  Arrival  ;> 

!}  In  the  Region  of  the  Tiger  and  the  Elephant  —  Our  first  Elephant  Hunt  J' 

i1  in  India  —  A  Boa   Constrictor  —  A  Tiger  —  A   Lion  —  Terrible    Conflict—  J> 

ft  Elephant  Catching—  Hunting  the  Tiger  with  Elephants—  Crossing  the  ^ 

\  Pyrenees  —  Encounter  with  a  Bear  —  A  Pigeon  Hunt"  on  the  Ohio  —  Jj 

I;  Wild-Hog  Hunt  in  Texas—  Hunting  the  Black-tailed  Deer.  S 


J.   W.  BBADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


AR  T  H  U  R'S 

I   SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  HflD  CHARACTER 

An  octavo  volume  of  over  400  pages,  beautifully  illus 
trated,   and  bound  in    the    best   English  muslin,  gilt 
;        •     back,  $2.00.     ___ 

NOTICES    OF   THE   PRESS. 

f>  The  present  volume,  containing  more  than  four  hundred  finely-printed     J 

~,  octavo  pages,  is  illustrated  by  splendid  engravings,  and  made  particularly      i 

;>  valuable  to  those  who  like  to  "see  the  face  of  him  they  talk  withal,"  by     < 

'{  a  correct  likeness  of  the  author,  finely  engraved  on  steel. — NeaVs  Gazette. 

J>  In  the  princely  mansions  of  the  Atlantic  merchants,  and  in  the  rude  log 

i,1  cabins  of  the  backwoodsmen,  the  name  of  Arthur  is  equally  known  and     J 

^  cherished  as  the  friend  of  virtue. — Graham's  Magazine. 

4  We  would  not  exchange  the  copy  of  these  sketches,  with  its  story  of 
\>  "The  Methodist  Preacher,"  for  anyone  of  the  gilt-edged  and  embossed 

5  Annuals  which  we  have  yet  seen. — Lady's  National  Magazine. 

Ji  The  first  story  in  the  volume,  entitled  "The  Methodist  Preacher;  or,  / 

t  Lights  and  Shadows  in  the  Life  of  an  Itinerant,"  is  alone  worth  the  price  ^ 

S  of  the  work. — Evening  Bulletin.  { 

It  is  emphatically  a  splendid  vroTk.—Middletown  Whig. 

Its  worth  and  cheapness  should  place  it  in  every  persons  hands  wha  de-  I1 

rj  sire  to  read  an  interesting  book. — Odd  Fellow,  Boonsboro'.  ^ 

$  "The  Methodist  Preacher,"  "Seed-Time  and  Harvest,"  "Dyed  in  the  ? 

4  Wool,"  are  full  of  truth  as  well  as  instruction,  aud  anyone  of  them  ig  j, 
•J          worth  the  whole  price  of  the  volume. — Lowell  Day-Star,  Rev.  D  0.  Eddy,  Jj 
,;          Editor.  < 

There  is  a  fascination  about  these  sketches  which  so  powerfully  interests  J> 

i>          the  reader,  that  few  who  commence  one  of  them  will  part  with  it  till  it  is  ^ 

5  concluded  ;  and  they  will  bear  reading  repeatedly. — Norfolk  and  Port*-  ^ 
J>          mouth  Herald.  S 

Those  who  have  not  perused  these  model  stories  have  a  rich  feast  ir  [> 

Ij          waiting,  and  we  shall  be  happy  if  we  can  be  instrumental  in  pointing  <J 

£          them  to  it. — Family  Visitor,  Madison,  Geo.  f' 

No  library  for  family  reading  should  be  considered  complete  without  ^ 

I          this  volume,  which  is  as  lively  and  entertaining  in  its  character  as  it  it  '> 

•alutary  in  its  influence. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  work  is  beautifully  illustrated.     Those  who  are  at  all  acquainted  J. 

ith  Arthur's  writings  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  present  work  is  a  priz«  i' 

to  whoever  possesses  it. — N.  Y.  Sun.  *> 

We  know  no  better  book  for  the  table  of  any  family,  whether  regarded  .; 

i|          for  its  neat  sxterior  or  valuable  contents. — Vox  Populi,  Lowell. 

TLe  name  of  the  author  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  the  <j 

work. — Lawrence  Sentinel.  J) 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia. 


